


i'll be seeing you

by Elizabeth



Series: Vesemir & Sons Private Investigators [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Action & Romance, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Complete, Eventual Smut, First Meetings, Found Family, Getting to Know Each Other, Humor, M/M, Private Investigators, Slow Burn, Stream of Consciousness, house renovation, idiots to lovers, pop culture references, working through childhood trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:33:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 46,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25226134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elizabeth/pseuds/Elizabeth
Summary: Lambert meets his neighbor, Aiden.He keeps meeting his neighbor, Aiden.Shenanigans ensue (and romance).Part two of Vesemir & Sons Private Investigators -- can be read as a stand-alone, but will make much more sense with additional context.
Relationships: Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher)
Series: Vesemir & Sons Private Investigators [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1826971
Comments: 742
Kudos: 313





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was planning to write more Merthur before this--and to wait until more was done before posting--but as per usual, I have no self control.
> 
> Here's a start! I have a busy afternoon, seeing some family for the first time since the beginning of March (outside! with space!)
> 
> We're starting with some flashback, and eventually we'll catch up to the actions of "someone to watch over me."

The first time Lambert met his neighbor, Aiden, he was breaking into his house. That is, Lambert was breaking into _his own_ house because he had locked himself out.

The house was a slightly shabby rowhouse on the south side, and he was using a credit card to jimmy the lock, cursing himself for forgetting his key, for not having the front light on, and not wearing his glasses or contacts. He used to manage without them quite nicely, thank-you-very-much, but they were more and more necessary daily.

He’d had a few drinks with Geralt and Eskel at their local pub, Morhen, and he was leaning down and squinting one moment, and summarily tackled into the door the next. “Oof,” he said, and coughed.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Lambert tried to tilt his head back to get a look at his assailant, but he was shoved back against the door, knob jabbing his hip, with a large, solid body holding him in place. “Breaking in?” he offered, which clearly was not a smart thing to say.

Lambert had a way of saying things that probably should’ve been kept in his head. Sometimes it worked to his advantage. This was not one of those times. The man shoved him forward harder, which was ineffective because he was already plastered face-first against the wood. He kicked his legs out so they were spread, took hold of his wrists, and twisted them behind his back. “What the—”

“Quiet.” The man clamped his wrists in a tight grip at an angle that made Lambert wince. He used his other hand to pat him down like a bank robber. He started to pull his wallet, and Lambert decided he’d had enough. He kicked his heel back into the man’s shin, sending him cursing and backing away. Lambert spun around, and jabbed him in the solar plexus.

It knocked the man back—as it should—and gave Lambert time to take a better position. Almost.

The man charged him much faster than any reasonable thief should be capable of. The man feinted with a right hook, and caught Lambert under the jaw with a left uppercut. It sent his head rattling against the door, and he stood for a moment, ringing. The man shoved him back again and pressed his forearm into Lambert’s neck. “ _What… the… fuck?_ ” Lambert managed to gasp. “ _Just… take… it… it’s… empty_.”

“Take what?” The man had dark, brown eyes and long hair, like Geralt’s, but a dark blonde. Lambert irrationally thought of Thor, and then forced himself to focus. _I should rewatch that_ , he thought. _Chris Hemsworth really_ _ _is_ a good-looking man, and that woman who played Jane Foster’s friend… What was her name?_

“Wallet,” Lambert finally said. The man frowned.

“What?”

“I said just take my wallet, but you’ll be disappointed. Fucker.”

“Why would I take your wallet?”

“Well what the fuck else would you want?”

“You’re the thief, not me.”

“I’m not a fucking thief.”

“You cuss a lot.”

“You’re strangling me! Why wouldn’t I cuss? And robbing me.”

“I’m not strangling you; you’re talking just fine. If I wanted to strangle you, you’d already be dead.”

“You could fucking try.”

“You’re antagonizing me? Really?”

“Bring it on, Hemsworth.”

“Huh?” The man pulled back an inch, and Lambert shoved him.

“You want some of this?”

“What? Who are you?”

“I live here!”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do?”

“You don’t. I live there.” He pointed next door. “And you must be drunk.”

“I’m not drunk, and I moved in last month.”

“It wasn’t even up for rent.”

“I bought it from Donna.”

“Who’s Donna?”

“The woman who fucking owned it before.”

“The guy who lived here was named Greg.”

“Her name is Donna, you shit.”

“Okay, calm down, I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

“Yeah, well, now you do. Anyway. She sold it. She hasn’t lived here in months.”

“I hadn’t seen anyone… I didn’t realize…”

Lambert shrugged. “Now you do.”

“Then why are you breaking in?”

Lambert scratched his head. “Uh… I left my key.”

“Oh. You want help with that?”

Lambert huffed. “I can’t see shit in this light without my glasses.”

“Why aren’t you wearing them?”

“I, uh, my friends might give me shit.”

“About wearing glasses?”

“I usually wear contacts, but my eyes hurt this morning.”

“Your friends must suck.”

“They don’t. They probably wouldn’t say anything, but… I just… I don’t like how they look.”

The man picked up Lambert’s credit card and had the door open in under a minute. “You should get a deadbolt put on this. Someone could break in.”

“No shit. How’d you know how to do that?”

“I, uh… Well. Um.” He shrugged. “Why didn’t I see you move in?”

Lambert opened the door to his nearly-empty house. “I don’t have much shit.”

“Minimalist? Or running from something?”

“Why would I buy a house if I was on the run?”

“I mean like a person, like a bad marriage.”

Lambert laughed. “Heh. No. No one’s dumb enough to marry this.” He stepped into his foyer. “You, uh… You want to come in?”

“I, uh, I actually can’t right now. I need to…”

“Of course, no man, that’s cool. I’ll just… Thanks for giving me a hand with the lock.”

“Remember your key next time.”

“Yeah, I think I’ll remember.” He chuckled, and the man chuckled, and turned, and was gone from his stoop in seconds.

Lambert shut the door and pulled the chain lock, despite knowing it wouldn’t do shit. Then he realized he hadn’t introduced himself or learned his neighbor’s name. “I just thanked him for trying to beat the ever-loving shit out of me.” He trudged up to his bathroom and splashed water on his face. A bruise was already forming on his jaw. “That was weird.” He stared at his reflection, looked himself in the eye, and purposefully said, “You’re an idiot.”

Sleep had been elusive. Sleep was frequently elusive. Lambert had a brain that was very good for some things and very bad for others. He could easily entertain himself for hours on end with rambling thoughts and associations, which was great for staying sane during stakeouts and keeping alert while holed up in a sniper’s nest. It had been less useful when he needed to pay attention as a student, and it was rubbish when he needed to sleep.

“Kat Dennings. That’s it.” He mentally gave himself a high-five. “Kat fucking Dennings.”

He smiled and finally drifted off.

The doorbell buzzed at ten. It buzzed, instead of ringing, because it was one of those old-fashioned joints, wired into the house. It was a lot different than what he’d grown up with in Kansas. It took some getting used to. He rolled off of his mattress and pulled on his glasses and a pair of jeans. “I’m coming,” he said. “I am coming.” He plodded down the stairs and flung open the door.

“You didn’t even look, man. I could’ve been anyone.”

The second time Lambert met his neighbor, Aiden, was the morning after he met him the first time. He wore faded, torn blue jeans with nothing underneath, and the glasses he’d had since the Naval Academy. (Just because he wasn’t good at staying focused doesn’t mean he couldn’t pass the tests.) “Shit,” Lambert said. He slammed the door and looked around. There was a greasy shirt he’d worn the morning before whilst working on refinishing the floor. He tugged it over his head and opened the door again.

“Um.”

“You wanna come in?”

The man stared at him with his mouth open. “Uh… Is this a bad time?”

“No. I mean. No. I haven’t…” _I haven’t brushed my teeth._ “You had breakfast?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“But I could use another cup of coffee.”

Lambert nodded. “Cool.” He turned around to hide his cringe. _It isn’t fucking 2003, bro, chill your grill. Chill your grill? It’s isn’t fucking 2013, either. Oh my god stop being so weird._ “The kitchen’s just back here.”

“Yeah, it’s the same as mine.”

“Oh, that maks sense I guess.”

“Looks like you’re doing a little work.”

“Yeah, well, Donna hadn’t been great at maintenance. This house is a fire trap. They rewired it with aluminum in the early seventies.”

“Yeah, I had that, too. Had to basically take it down to the studs to get it all out.”

“Really?” Lambert filled the coffee pot with water and measured out grounds for the basket. “You do it yourself?”

“No, I wouldn’t want to risk that, you know? I mean, a fire here would take out the whole block, and I use a lot of electricity.”

“Oh yeah? For what?”

“Um… Well, my job, sometimes, I have to have pretty constant computer access, and my, uh, work… has me use a specific server set up—I don’t want to bore you—what do you do?”

“Me?” Lambert adjusted his glasses.

“Yeah. Looks like you’re pretty handy. You a carpenter?”

“Nah, I did it for a year with my buddy Geralt. We both decided it wasn’t for us.”

“Old college friend?”

“Navy.”

“Oh.” The man’s eyes sweep up and down Lambert’s frame. “That explains the fighting.”

“Hey, you attacked me. Anyone would do the same.”

“That’s actually why I wanted to stop by. To apologize for last night.”

“It’s no big deal. I should appreciate it, really. You’re looking out for the house. Though you didn’t know Donna had left.”

“I said I hadn’t seen her for awhile—although now I wonder if I had and hadn’t recognized her.”

The correct pronoun usage should be a given, a no-brainer, but it still sends a warmth through Lambert’s core. His fingers tingle, and he thinks he may go down to the boxing gym later. Or he could get his bag set up in the basement. It’s one of the things he owns. “Yeah, that’s true, I guess.”

“So, what happened to her? Why’d she just up and leave and sell you her house?”

“She needed to sell it—or wanted to, anyway—to get away from a particularly nasty ex.” Lambert watched the coffee percolate and pulled a pair of mugs out of the cabinet. “I think it was a little freeing, actually. She has family in Chicago she decided to start over with. Some nieces and nephews.”

“And… sorry for prying, but, why’d she sell it to you without listing it?”

“I needed a new place, she needed to sell one, and we met through my work when she was dealing with the ex.”

“What’s you work?”

Lambert poured the two mugs of coffee and sat down across from the man. “What’s yours?”

The man smiled. “Okay. Fair. I… work in security.”

“That’s funny.”

“Why’s that funny?”

“Me too.”

He watched Thor take a sip. “This Kona?”

 _He recognizes it?_ “Yeah, there’s a website I buy it from that ships it direct. All of the profits straight to the farm. And it’s the real stuff—not any of that gas station slop with a fake label on it.”

“You are a very opinionated man.”

Lambert opened his mouth and then closed it. They both drank. “I am.”

“That’s cool.”

Lambert found it suddenly difficult to meet his eyes. “Uh… So, you know a good electrician? I mean, I can do a lot of it, but I don’t want to fuck around with that and mess it up. And I don’t really have time.”

“I do. I’ll get you his contact info later. I think there’s a card in my junk drawer.”

“Thanks. That’d be really nice.”

The man nodded. “No problem. What are neighbors for, right?”

Lambert chuckled. “I guess. I’m not sure I’ve had that kind of neighbor before. Not since I was a kid, anyway.”

“Some small-town cul-de-sac?”

“You aren’t far off. Wichita.”

“Koch country.”

“Shit, that’s right. You from the Midwest?”

“Nah, just hyperaware of fuckheads. Oh shit—I’m sorry. Sometimes I don’t… think.”

“No, no, no please. Believe me. You are over a hundred percent accurate on the fuckhead front.” He took a long draw from his mug. “There’s a reason most of us are _from_ there. I wasn’t brave enough to stay. Although, huh, it’s funny, isn’t it, how quickly the villains can change?”

“There’s an excess of fuckheadery, that’s for sure.” He finished his cup and looked at his watch. “Hey, I gotta go. Thanks for the coffee.” He stood.

“No problem.” Lambert set his mug down.

“Alright, see you later, neighbor,” he said, and all but ran from the house.

Lambert sat at his sad kitchen table and stared at the empty mug. “Fuck,” he said. “I still don’t know his name.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: brief mention of abusive parenting, especially at the very end.

Lambert’s living room wall was covered in a thick, swirling plaster that smelled like decades-old cigarette smoke and mold. Beneath the plaster was red brick. Lambert had a mallet and a chisel and a stepladder. He spent hours removing plaster, bit by bit.

The third time Lambert met his neighbor, Aiden, was at two in the morning on a Wednesday. The doorbell buzzed, and Lambert opened it. His neighbor stood in the doorway, wearily blinking and frowning. Plaster dust cascaded through the air around him like a mystic cloud, carried off into the night.

“Lambert. Really. What the fuck?”

“Huh?”

“It’s two o’clock in the morning. What are you doing?”

“Working?”

“It’s two o’clock in the morning.”

“Oh. _Oh_ , sorry—were you asleep?”

“No, no, I was _not_ asleep. That’s my point. That wall,” he pointed, “is also _my_ wall.”

Lambert rubbed his hands on his shirt. He winced. “Sorry.”

“What are you even doing?”

“I’m taking the plaster off the brick.”

“Do you have to do it now?”

“I just… Sorry. I keep planning to stop, but then I can’t get it to an even spot.”

“An even spot?”

“Yeah, see, there at the bottom? It went in too far, so now I have to line it up, and I can’t get it lined up right, so I just keep doing another strip, but then I can’t get that right…” He rubbed his hand on the back of his neck.

Aiden closed his eyes and sighed. “How about you just let it go for tonight, without getting it just right, and then tomorrow I’ll come over and help.”

“But…”

“You aren’t going to get it perfect, so you’re going to keep going until it’s finished, and that’s going to take longer than one night. And _I_ need to _sleep_.”

Lambert breathed in the outside air and realized his head was pounding. His eyes felt dry and raw. He hadn’t showered all day… or the day before. _I must reek_. “Okay,” he murmured.

“Right. Good. Sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.” His neighbor turned. “Later this morning, that is.”

He disappeared again. Lambert bolted the door and picked up a Sharpie. He wrote “NAME” in bold letters on his hand. He trudged upstairs to his bedroom and threw himself face-down on his mattress. His last thought before falling asleep was that he should’ve showered first.

The doorbell woke him again. His eyes were crusted and gritty, and he missed the last step and fell hard on his ass before making it to the door. He stumbled to the door, opened it, and held up his hand to block the sun from his pained eyes. “Ugh,” he said.

“Jesus Christ.” His neighbor stared at him and Lambert stepped aside to usher him in.

“Uh, come in.”

“Are those the same jeans you were wearing last night? Did you even undress to sleep?”

“No?”

“Maybe you should go clean up.”

Lambert nodded and managed to make it back upstairs without hurting himself. He stood under the water as it warmed up, shivering himself into wakefulness. He washed his eyes and his hair, and then brushed his teeth. He took a handful of ibuprofen, and put on a full set of clean clothes.

He found his neighbor seated at the kitchen table with a box of doughnuts and two cups of coffee. “You’ll like this,” he said, pushing one toward Lambert.

“What is it?”

“It’s the house blend at a bakery over on 85th.”

Lambert inspected the cup and the doughnut box. “You went to a bakery and bought doughnuts?”

“Uh… Yes?”

“Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“What do you mean, nothing? That look isn’t _nothing_.”

“I mean nothing! It’s just… You know they have pastries, right?”

“A doughnut is a pastry.”

“No it isn’t.”

“Yes it is! What do you mean, a doughnut isn’t a pastry?”

“Pastries have like, lamination and shit.”

“Lamination?”

“Yeah, you know, with the butter and the folding.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Are the doughnuts good?”

“Well they don’t have lamination, so I’m sure they’re bound to disappoint.”

Lambert sank into his chair and rubbed his shoulder. _Lambert, shut up you ungrateful swine._ “I’m sorry. I don’t think they’ll disappoint—that isn’t what I mean—I don’t—sometimes I… Fuck. Uh, I’m gonna try this.” He popped the lid off the coffee cup and took in the scent. It was rich, nutty, with a hint of spice. He took a sip. “Oh, that is good.” Medium roast, robust but smooth. He took a bigger drink, and as he set the cup down, he noticed the word NAME was written on his hand. “Oh! Shit. What’s your name?”

His neighbor’s eyebrows dipped as he squinted at him. “Aiden.”

“Aiden. Nice to meet you.” He chuckled. “I’m Lambert.”

“I know.”

“You do? Oh yeah, you said it last night. Did I tell you?”

“No.”

“Um. Then how’d you know?”

“I looked up a record of the sale.”

“From the house?”

Aiden nodded. _Aiden. It suits him._ "Yep."

“Huh. Okay.” _That’s weird._

“Sorry. I was… curious… about the whole thing.”

“No, no worries. So, Aiden. Aiden,” he repeated, because he liked the way it sounded on his tongue. “Hmm.”

“What?”

“Uh, I’m, er, sorry about last night. Sometimes I get going on something and then I lose track of time.”

“It’s no problem. I have a sister like you.”

“No shit?”

Aiden huffed out a laugh. “No shit. She’s an artist. I mean, not as a job, but it’s who she is. She’ll start painting and not realize whole days have passed.”

“Well, I mean, that’s kind of like me. To be fair to your sister, I can’t stay focused that long.”

“I can see that.” Aiden sipped his coffee. “So you’re removing the plaster.”

“Yeah.” Lambert turned and looked over his shoulder to the wall. “Exposing the brick all along that wall.”

“How about I start at this end, and then we can meet in the middle?”

“You would do that?”

“Sure.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s fucking loud.”

“Oh.”

Aiden laughed again. “And you’ll owe me a favor. It’s always good to have neighbors that owe you a favor.”

“Is it?”

He nodded. “Next time I need a floor refinished or a wall redone, I’ll come calling.”

Lambert shrugged. “I mean, if you provide doughnuts and coffee, I’m not gonna complain.” He took a bite of a cruller and felt the sugary glaze stick to his fingers.

The job went faster with two people. Lambert ordered sandwiches delivered for lunch. “You didn’t have to work today?” he asked around a mouthful of hoagie.

Aiden shook his head. “Just finished up a long contract yesterday, so now I’ll have a little time off.”

“Contract work? Interesting.”

Instead of offering more information, Aiden replied, “I’m surprised your other neighbors didn’t say anything as well.”

“Oh, no, the kids who live there are sweet as hell.”

“Kids? What about the man.”

“What man?”

“The guy who owns it. Their father. He sure as hell isn’t sweet.”

“I haven’t met him.”

“Well, consider yourself lucky. I offered to help him fix a tire awhile back. Won’t make that mistake again.”

“Huh. That’s odd. I wonder why I haven’t seen him around.”

“You thought those kids just lived there on their own?”

“The one looks about eighteen. I was…” he trailed off. He took another bite instead of finishing the thought. _No one wants to hear your sob story_ , he thought. _Get over it_. Aiden watched him so closely, Lambert had to look away. He swallowed a gulp of water so large it hurt his esophagus the entire way down. “Alright, I’m back to work.”

“You have trouble talking about yourself, don’t you?” Aiden asked.

“What? No. No, I just… I talk about myself all the time. Like you said before, I’m very opinionated.”

Aiden rolled his eyes. “That’s not the same thing.”

“Well, whatever. You gonna eat those chips?”

“Yes.”

“Hm. Okay.”

Aiden popped one in his mouth. Around the crunch, he asked, “So what’s next after the wall?”

Lambert leaned back in his chair and looked around the room. “I’m not happy about this popcorn ceiling.”

“But it’s one of the sparkly ones.”

“Yeah, why the fuck did people in the seventies think glitter and popcorn was a look that would last?”

“Just consider yourself lucky you missed out on orange shag carpet.”

“I got some sweet wood paneling upstairs, though.”

“Nice. You know, you can paint some of it and it has a nice look afterward. Depends on the aesthetic you’re going for, of course,” Aiden said, chomping another potato chip.

Lambert watched Aiden's throat constrict as he swallowed. He had a very defined Adam’s apple and a strong jawline. Lambert raked his fingers through his short, dusty hair and made a face as plaster bits hindered his movement. “It’s gotta be like, timeless, you know? I never had a place like this—never expected it.” He took another drink. “I’m gonna get everything fixed up, and then I’m gonna plan like, a dinner party. My buddy Eskel plans these dinner parties sometimes. He’s such an old man. Heh. Anyway, he has poker nights and he’ll smoke meat and stuff. Me and Geralt—he’s one of my other friends—we’ve always just had cramped, shitty walk-up apartments, you know? How long you lived here?”

“Just under a year. Had to start over.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Divorce. My ex’s family owns like, a third of Palm Beach.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. They didn’t like me leaving very much.”

“Huh.”

“Anyway, Eskel and Geralt—they your friends you don’t want seeing you in glasses?”

Lambert felt his face heat. “I said it was just me—not them being—I mean, they’re assholes, don’t get me wrong. Them and the kid, Coën. We all work together, too.”

“Why are you self-conscious about your glasses?”

“Because they make me look like a dork.”

Aiden laughed. “No they don’t.”

“What?”

“You were wearing them the other morning.”

“I was?”

“Yeah, and jeans…” Aiden looked away. “We should get back to work if we’re going to finish this today.”

Lambert watched him push in his chair and walk back to his stepladder. _The morning I wasn’t wearing a shirt_ , he thought. _I must’ve looked like an absolute dumbass_. He took one last swig of water and got back to work himself.

“You’re going to need to buy furniture, you know,” Aiden told him, tapping at the end of the pry bar he was using as a chisel.

“I have that couch.” Lambert pointed to the tarp-covered lump in the middle of the room.

“One couch does not a home make.”

“Okay, Yoda.”

“It’s the truth.”

“That something you learned from your ex-wife?”

“That’s something I learned from my mother.”

“Oh.” _Fuck_. “Sorry.”

“No worries.” Aiden moved the pry bar and knocked off another chunk of plaster. He wiped his forearm across his brow. “Anyway. My ex-wife wasn’t a homemaker—which is fine with me, that wasn’t why it didn’t work out. Her homemaking consisted of hiring people, which gave them jobs: decorators, cleaners, chefs.”

“Fuck, they really did own Palm Beach.”

Aiden shrugged. “It was fine.” He looked around the rowhouse. “I like the coziness here. And Florida is hot in the summer.”

“It sure as shit is. Although, I mean, there are places hotter.”

“True. This one time, in Senegal—” Aiden stopped. He pulled off another piece of plaster.

“What?”

“Oh. It was just really hot. I mean, it stays more temperate in Dakar, but… Anyway. Yeah. It gets hot.”

Lambert watched him continue to work, and let the conversation go.

They finished the job around one in the morning. Lambert flopped back onto the tarp-covered sofa and admired the work. “That was so much faster than I expected.”

Aiden sank down beside him. “Much faster.” He looked at Lambert and then back at the wall. “We must make a good team.”

“Dynamic duo.”

Aiden chuckled. “Are you Conway or Loretta?”

“Did you just make a Conway Twitty reference?”

“Uh, no, _you_ made a Conway Twitty reference.”

“I just said dynamic duo. That could be a lot of things. Bonnie and Clyde, for example,” Lambert said.

“They both died.”

“So did Conway Twitty.”

“Eh, but Loretta Lynn’s still alive.”

“True. The fuck are we talking about this?”

“I don’t know, you started it.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

“Whatever man.” Lambert leaned his head back on the sofa and laughed. It felt good. His muscles ached from the work. He rolled his shoulders. “Hey.”

“What?” Aiden's eyes were dark and warm, like caramel or chocolate.

“Thanks.”

Aiden shrugged. “Like I said, you owe me.”

“Does that mean you aren’t planning to help knock down this popcorn ceiling?”

He grinned. His bottom teeth were crooked. “You’re going to owe me big time. You starting that tomorrow? I mean today?”

“Nah, I have work.”

“Alright. Good. I’m going to sleep.”

“Sounds good. Hey, take another beer on your way out.”

“I will. Later, Lambert.”

“Later, Aiden. Good night.” He walked him to the door.

The first time Lambert met his neighbor, Rience, he was trying to break into his house. That is, Rience was breaking into _his_ house.

The lights were on inside, and Rience threw himself, repeatedly, into the door, howling like an angry coyote.

“The fuck is going on out here?” Lambert asked, wondering how he hadn't heard the racket inside his house.

Aiden stepped around him. “Rience. What are you doing?”

“Let! Me! In!!” he yelled.

The curtains fluttered, and Lambert saw a youthful face peer out. He held up his hand in a wave, and the little girl waved back.

“I see you, you little—” Rience didn’t finish. Lambert held him by the collar.

“Watch what you say, shit head. I don’t like people who are mean to kids. Who the fuck are you?” Rience swung at him, so Lambert threw him against the door before hauling him up again. “I’m going to ask one more time before I call the police or take care of you myself. Who are you?”

“Rience. This is my house, you son-of-a-bitch! Let me go!”

“Calm down,” Aiden said. “What’s going on?”

The door cracked open. “It’s okay.” The teenage boy stood in the opening. “He can come in.”

Lambert eyed him. The boy was tense, but he didn’t look scared. Lambert released Rience. “You sure, kid?”

The boy nodded. “Let’s just all go to bed.” Beside him, the little girl yawned.

Lambert and Aiden stood and watched them let Rience through and close the door. The house was quiet and the lights went out. Aiden shook his head. “Interesting block,” Lambert said.

“Goodnight, Lambert.” Aiden’s voice was quiet. He frowned and walked away.

Lambert made his way back inside. He stood for a long time, staring at the wall. He lied awake even longer, thinking about the little face next door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to update! I spent a good amount of time outlining yesterday, so I have the whole story planned out. Hoping to have it around the same length as someone to watch over me, but it's going to be a much slower burn (not being in the adult film industry does change attitudes toward affection, after all).
> 
> Thank you SO MUCH for the positive feedback so far! I am so happy you're liking the Lambert characterization as an ADHD chaotic disaster bi. That's 110% the energy I'm hoping for, which I feel like, when added to like, serious trauma and untreated depression, is pretty canon.
> 
> This story is going to take my traumatized boy and give him a home to build. #letlamberthavenicethingstoo
> 
> Thank you for coming on this rarepair (I think?) adventure with me.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: This story is going to have abusive parenting as a major theme. To avoid in this chapter, stop reading when Aiden goes home.
> 
> Also please excuse this very self-indulgent character-build chapter (for the first half of it, anyway). We'll get more humor and grow the tension next chapter.

“I grew up in a house with popcorn ceilings,” Lambert said. His voice was muffled by one of the white dust masks he’d picked up at the hardware store. It was cozy and cramped, locally-owned by the same family for sixty years. “Pretty sure they had asbestos.”

“You tested this, right?” Aiden asked.

“Of course I tested it. You think I’d just have you in here helping me if there was asbestos in this?”

Aiden stopped scraping and cocked his head to the side as he looked at Lambert for a beat. “No, actually, I don’t.”

Lambert paused. He straightened his safety glasses. “Okay. Good.” He slid the putty knife along the edge of the ceiling, careful to not put any new dips in the drywall. “This is going to take ages.”

Aiden’s mouth was covered by his dust mask, but his eyes were warm as he went back to work. “It’ll get done.”

“And then I gotta decide what color I’m painting it.”

“The ceiling?”

“Yeah.”

“Not white?”

“Nah, man, I saw some pictures that were like, all sorts of colors.”

“Isn’t that in ritzy townhouses?”

“You sayin’ my place can’t be like some ritzy townhouse? I’m gonna have a fuckin’ show home when this is said and done.”

“Show home?”

“Yeah, like, parade of homes shit.”

“What?”

“Parade of homes. You know, when the carpenters’ union or whatever does the thing where you can go around and look at places.”

“That’s… a thing? How do you—”

“It was free. You just said you were looking to buy a house, and they let you go look at all these places with like, giant bathrooms and built-in shelves.”

Aiden was quiet for a moment. “There was a state park outside my hometown.”

Lambert stilled, trying to connect the dots. “Yeah?”

“It had a river. Springs. That was why the park was there.”

“Huh.”

“If you drove, there was a gate, you know? Each car was like, two and a half bucks for the day or something, but there was a commuter lot off the highway on the north side of the park.”

“Nice.”

“Yeah.”

“So, were you in Florida then, too? You said Palm Beach, right?”

“No, I didn’t grow up there.” He scraped at the ceiling and didn’t offer any more information.

Lambert shrugged. “Alright.” He went back to the edge and slid the putty knife beneath the speckled surface. A long, smooth line was left in its wake, and Lambert smiled in satisfaction.

They worked late into the night. Aiden worked in the middle, clearing wide swathes with the scraper, and Lambert did the edges. He ordered a greasy pizza from the closest late-night shop, and they stood in the kitchen, considering the state of their clothes. “It won’t matter, you know—these chairs aren’t going to make it into your show home.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean a show home is going to have a bigger table, for one, especially if you’re throwing dinner parties, and it’s probably not going to have this light oak finish.”

Lambert shrugged and sat on the wooden seat. A puff of white dust billowed out from his jeans, and he waved his hand to dissipate it in the air. “If you say so.” Aiden’s lips curved up at the corner in a crooked smile, and Lambert felt himself mirror it. There was a crease along his cheek where the dust mask had pressed against him, and the area around the mask and his safety glasses was dusty, while the skin that had been covered was clean. Lambert chuckled. “You look ridiculous.”

“ _I_ look ridiculous? You should see you.”

Lambert looked down at his dust-covered t-shirt. It was one of his oldest, worn soft and thin. It was a bit snugger across his pecs than he wore them anymore—a survivor from his younger, cockier days. He’d have gone out like this and tried to pick someone up. It wouldn’t have worked; his mouth always ended up getting in the way. Lambert flicked a piece of ceiling off his shoulder. “I mean, it isn’t the _worst_ you’ve seen me.”

“The morning with the plaster was pretty rough.”

“Meanwhile, you just always look like this.”

“What? I always look ridiculous?” Aiden chuckled.

Lambert laughed. “Nah, I mean, even when you’re all disheveled you’re like…” He gestured at Aiden. “Like, whatever.”

“Like whatever? What does that mean?”

Lambert took a bite of his pizza and tried to fill in the fuzzy spot in his mind as he chewed. What _did_ he mean? His brain rifled through images like magazine pages. “Uh, like, out of a catalog or something.” His hair, today, was swept back, and he looked like some kind of Viking, but with a tight black athletic shirt and dark denim. _Eddie Bauer ad. Ralph Lauren cologne._ That wasn’t quite right, but it was in the ballpark.

Aiden scoffed. “Okay.”

Lambert shrugged. He finished his slice and took a long drink of beer. Aiden peeled the label off his bottle as he chewed. “I have to work tomorrow,” Lambert said.

“So, you’re saying it’s time to call it a night?”

“No, I’m… Uh. I mean, it’s not like I’d be going to sleep.”

“Why not?”

“What?”

“Why won’t you be going to sleep?”

Lambert crossed his arms over his chest. “You sure ask a lot of questions for someone who doesn’t like to talk about himself.”

“You’re the one who keeps changing the subject.”

“That isn’t true.”

“Okay, Lambert.”

Lambert furrowed his eyebrows. He watched Aiden swallow the last of his pizza. “You know, your name doesn’t show up in any databases. Like for background checks.”

“That’s funny. Yours doesn’t either.”

They stared at each other.

“Wisconsin. I grew up in Wisconsin.”

Lambert chewed on the inside of his cheek. “And now you’re here.”

“And now I’m here.”

“You don’t strike me as a man who can’t go home again.”

“I don’t know what you mean by that.” Aiden’s voice was cautious.

“I mean, when was the last time you visited your parents?”

Aiden’s mouth formed a tight smile. “Christmas.”

Lambert nodded. “I figured.”

“How?”

He shrugged. “Geralt says I’m an asshole, but Eskel says sometimes I just see too much.”

“Maybe they’re both right.”

“How?”

“You can see something without bringing it up, you know.”

Lambert smirked. “That’s a very polite, Midwestern attitude. What’s your favorite food at church dinners? Ambrosia salad?”

Aiden’s eyed narrowed. “Deviled eggs.”

Lambert couldn’t stop a burst of laughter. “Fair.”

“What’s yours? Wait.” Aiden watched him take another drink. “Hmm.”

“What?”

Aiden leaned forward. “I’m guessing Wednesday night spaghetti dinners in the Methodist Church basement.”

Lambert swallowed. His stomach turned over. He could almost smell the vinyl tablecloths and burnt Folgers. Classic roast, metal tin. He sucked in a breath, and tried to cover it with a cough. He forced his mouth into a smile. “You know, the Lutherans had better fish fries than the Catholics, and they didn’t have beer.”

Aiden worried his bottom lip. “I see.”

Lambert shrugged. “You probably had a lot of Lutherans around in Wisconsin, right? Or are they all over in Minnesota?”

“Mom’s Presbyterian. Dad just goes.”

“Impressive. And your sister’s an artist, so I’m guessing… agnostic or Episcopalian. Are there Unitarians in Wisconsin? That’s an artistic denomination.”

“Impressive? And I don’t think Unitarian is a denomination as much as a philosophy.”

Lambert’s stomach turned over again. It felt different this time. “I think you’re probably right. And I mean that they're together.” He rolled his sore shoulder.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, it’s nothing. Just an old injury. I should’ve done more of the plaster with my left.”

Aiden stood up. “Maybe it’s best if we call it for the night.” He looked down at his dusty arms. “I need a good bath.”

“Bath?”

“Or shower,” Aiden shrugged. “I’m not picky.” He tugged up at the front of his shirt and scrubbed his face with the cloth. His stomach was pale, with a light trail of hair that traveled down past his waistband.

Lambert pressed his lips together. Aiden was well-muscled and lean. It wasn’t surprising, given the events of the past two weeks, but the fresh reminder sent a thrum of curiosity running through him. _You’ve already learned a lot today. Give it a rest, Bert._ “When I get my bathroom fixed up, I’m going to get a tub so big I can lie down in it,” he said, rather than inquire about Aiden’s fitness regimen or anything equally idiotic. _Good. Stay normal. Be less weird. Wait. Is talking about bathtubs weird? No, we’re doing a home renovation. I mean, I’m doing a home renovation. He’s just a nice guy. He’s really a remarkably nice guy—_ “Hey. Thank you. Really. You’ve helped me a lot. A whole lot. I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to repay that.”

“Eh. Maybe I’ll want to use the giant bathtub someday.”

 _There it is again_. His stomach did _that thing_ again. He tilted his head to the side, imagining Aiden rapping on his door in a fluffy bathrobe, rubber duck and scrub brush in hand. He wasn’t sure why he turned into Ernie in his mind, but it fit. _Heh. Bert and Ernie. Nice_.

“Something funny?”

“Huh? No.”

“You were smiling.”

“Was I? I was just—nothing, I mean—you’re always, that is, you could. Definitely.”

“Of course, you don’t know anything about my bathroom, do you? It could already be parade-of-homes-worthy.”

“Do they not have that in Wisconsin?”

“I don’t know, but it isn’t the sort of thing we would’ve done.”

Lambert shrugged. “Not a bad way to get out of the house.”

“So’s the art museum.”

“Yeah, but I always did that on my own.”

Aiden nodded. _He sees way too much, too_ , Lambert thought. He walked him out. “You work tomorrow. You finishing this up after?”

“If I get finished in time.”

Aiden nodded. “I’ll see you around.”

The second time Lambert met his neighbor Rience was at two in the morning on a Monday. He woke with a start, immediately sitting up in his bed. Mattress, rather. He didn’t know what had woke him, but his body launched him forward. He was wearing sweatpants because it was a cool night and he hadn’t spent the money for the good duvet, thinking he wouldn’t need it. He slid his feet into his running shoes and picked up his pistol on instinct. He carried it downstairs and laid it on the small table in the foyer. _There it is again_. A _thump_ , a whimper, and breaking glass. “Fuck,” Lambert cursed. He was out his door before he could consider his actions.

Rience’s front door was locked. A well-placed kick splintered it, and Lambert was through in seconds. He found them in the upstairs hall: Rience, towering over his son, had his arm pulled back in a fist. Lambert didn’t think. He launched himself at Rience.

It wasn’t a particularly sophisticated fight, nor was it very long. He shoved him hard, and his head connected with the wall, leaving a dent in the drywall. The image triggered something even deeper in Lambert’s mind. His right fist connected with Rience’s gut with a dull _thwap._ His left met the side of his face.

“Lambert!”

He froze, and Rience crumpled to the floor. The little girl, curled into a tight ball in the corner, stared at him with big eyes. Aiden climbed the stairs after him, panting. “Don’t kill him.” He looked at Rience, who was coughing and bleeding on the floor. “It’d be a lot of paperwork.”

Lambert looked at the boy. His face was eerily impassive, save for a subtle flex in his jaw. “You want us to call the police?” Lambert asked.

“No,” the boy said. “No, if they have to come out again, the state will take us.” He held his hand out to his sister and she rushed to his side.

Lambert glared down at Rience. He started to advance on him.

“Easy, Lambert. Rience. Get out of here. Unless you want to end up in a grave.”

“Fuck you. This is _my_ house.”

Lambert stepped on his chest. “I don’t care if it’s the pope’s house. This is two strikes, asshole.”

“You can’t threaten me!”

Lambert put some weight into his heel, and Rience winced. “Try to stop me, motherfucker.” His vision narrowed to the vein bulging from Rience’s forehead. His face was red. A hand closed, soft, on Lambert’s arm. He turned to find Aiden close beside him.

“Kids, the front door is busted. Why don’t you pack an overnight bag, and you can stay over at my place?”

The boy nodded. He took his sister by the hand and disappeared into a room. “You can’t—”

“Shut up, Rience.” Aiden released Lambert and leaned down to grab one of his arms. Lambert gripped the other, and they escorted him out of the house together. It was an easy operation, even with him struggling.

“You stink of cheap liquor and cheaper aftershave,” Lambert sneered. “There’s a clinic on Twelfth Street. Why don’t you go dry out?” He shoved him for good measure.

Rience turned and spat at him, but it sprayed through the air without touching him. He clenched his fist. “You can’t kick me out of my own house.”

“We just did,” Aiden said in a low, even voice. “Now why don’t you take his advice and disappear?” Rience glared, but did as he was told. He trudged off into the gloomy night.

Aiden let out a loud exhalation. He pulled a pistol from the back of his jeans and uncocked it. Lambert felt his eyebrows lift. Aiden just shrugged and tucked it back into his waistband.

The kids met them on the sidewalk. “You okay?” Lambert asked.

The boy set his jaw. “Fine.”

Lambert nodded.

“Does this mean I can read more of my book?” the little girl asked.

“Shh, Astrid,” said the boy. “It’s time for bed. For real.”

“But my story isn’t finished.”

“It’s okay, Skjall,” said Aiden. He knelt down to Astrid’s level. “What book are you reading?”

Her eyes brightened. “Magic Tree House! They had a new one at the library.”

“That sounds exciting. How about we get you set up in my guest room, and then you can read for thirty more minutes before it’s time to sleep?”

Lambert swallowed around a lump in his throat. Aiden looked up at him, and then looked away. Astrid nodded. Lambert watched them disappear into Aiden’s house. He secured the kids' door as well as he could and pulled up the hardware store’s hours on his phone. He could replace it before the kids were back awake.

He sat on his front stoop and watched the street for movement. Eventually the lights went off next door. He felt uneasy and decentered, vulnerable, like his top layer of skin had been removed. He wondered if Aiden would come back out. Lambert tried to focus his thoughts into something like meditation, like they had taught him when he saw the counselor.

He could still feel the impact of Rience’s flesh against his knuckles. The streetlights reflected on the tops of the cars as a fog drifted in from the bay, and then they were swallowed by it.

It was cold. Finally, fingers stiff and legs cramped, Lambert went back inside. He showered again and waited for the sun to rise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to everyone reading this! Lots of love to you guys. <3 <3 
> 
> You may have noticed the 17 chapter length. That's based on my outline and predictions, but may change.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: still discusses abuse.

Lambert picked at the paint peeling from the door frame leading into Vesemir’s office. “You know what we’re going to find,” he said. “Same as last time.”

Vesemir shook his head. “I don’t care if every house in the goddamn neighborhood burns. If the insurance company pays us to investigate, we’re going to investigate.” He chomped a piece of gum. “You’re the one who’s the best with this kind of bullshit, so you’re taking the job.”

“It’s a waste of time,” Lambert whined. “They’re all just electrical fires. I’m telling you—I’ve said it a hundred thousand times—nobody checks their wiring when they buy in that neighborhood. They see all these charming little fucking bungalows that were built in the goddamn twenties. Knob and tube, Vesemir. Knob and tube! You plug your vacuum into that, your fucking hairdryer—heats it up, insulation goes, and that’s it.”

“Well, they’re getting a half-million-dollar renovation on a house worth 750,000 and the insurance company wants it looked at.”

Lambert shook his head. “Of course they fucking are. You know, we have an expression for people like that where I’m from. They can land in a pile of shit and come out smellin’ like roses.”

“Charming.”

“Well, that’s what happens when you’re a fucking—what does this motherfucker do again?”

“Lawyer.”

“Of course he fucking is.”

“Watch your language, son. Regis is a lawyer, and he's saved our asses more than once.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Vesemir crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his squeaky desk chair. “Lambert, if you think this guy’s a bad person, _prove it_.”

“They moved here from Saginaw, right?”

“Yep.”

“Why?”

“Why wouldn’t they? You ever been to Michigan?”

“Michigan’s great. There’s lakes there. Big ones. Clean, cool water. He’d have to retake the Bar for a new state.”

“Not necessarily. I think there’s a shorter version of the exam for people who are already practicing.”

Lambert rolled his eyes. “Whatever. I want to know why they moved. What did he do? I don’t think law firms around the city are eagerly recruiting talent from Michigan. His wife doesn’t work outside the home.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means she works in the home. Homemaker. A mother. They have three sons.”

“Huh.”

“So why’d they move _here_ , where the cost of living is outrageous, the schools are known for their dysfunction—”

“The schools here are fine. Geralt and Eskel—”

“Yeah? So are the schools in Michigan.” Lambert sat down on the cheap vinyl chair across from Vesemir’s ridiculously oversized desk. “Point is, I want Coën on it.”

“What? You want a full background investigation for an insurance fraud case—which you yourself were just saying was solely negligence?”

“Oh, I’m sure it was negligence. That doesn’t mean the guy isn’t hiding something.” He unlocked and locked his phone screen. “And I’ll go over and poke around the burnt bits. They living there right now?”

“No. Set up in a hotel until it’s cleaned.”

“Of course. Fucking Holiday Inn.”

“I think it’s a Hampton.”

Lambert shook his head. “Whatever.”

Lambert reread the report in his car outside the burnt house. It was a quaint little brick number with a screened-in porch on the side, which was completely blackened. The fire had taken out the kitchen, which was being expanded as a result. The family was also getting a new two-car garage built on. In the detritus, Lambert found the most likely culprit: a patio heater. They probably had it going on the porch to warm the spring night. The wiring ran through the wall between the kitchen and porch, down to the shitty little panel in the basement.

The house had a wine cellar, but it didn’t have functional wiring. Lambert’s feet sunk into the carpet on the stairs. “That’s going to wear out,” he muttered and made a mental note to use low-pile on his own stair runner.

The windows were also in shit condition. They had character, but the efficiency would be nonexistent. “Fuckin’ rich people can be so goddamned stupid.” _They paid $750,000 for this and didn’t even get double pane windows. You should be able to get triple pane for that._ The house was noticeably devoid of any signs of the family’s past life in Michigan. Lambert wandered through the rooms. “These motherfuckers are definitely hiding something.” The home interior looked neutral, like a sample home or a condo timeshare. He opened a singed kitchen drawer and found it empty. “Huh.” The next drawer was stuffed with utensils, and the next was full of dishtowels and potholders. “Hmm.” He reopened the first drawer and looked at it again. _Silverware?_ _Why would the silverware be gone?_ Lambert scratched his head. He opened the remaining drawers and cabinets. Most of the charred remains had been full, but a few empty spots stood out. _Did they not move everything in yet?_ “They’ve been here months.” He pulled out his phone and dialed Coën.

“Yo!”

“Don’t ever say that again.”

“O-kay. What’s up?”

“This fire thing. These assholes are definitely hiding something.”

“Like?”

“I don’t know, but I need that report done as soon as you got time, got it?”

“Alright, but you know Geralt has me looking into that thing with the bodega and the melons…”

“He what?”

“Yubari King melons.”

“What?”

“They’re like, really expensive.”

“I know that. What does it have to do with a bodega?”

“The lady who runs the bodega had a crate of them stolen.”

“From the bodega? Which bodega? Are there more? I fucking love cantaloupe.”

“No. From her apartment.”

“Then why is the bodega involved?”

“Geralt thinks it’s someone from the bodega.”

“Oh. Okay. Well… Do this, too. You’re supposed to be the whiz kid, right? I want to know if this guy took a shop class in high school. I want to know if he ever had a house burn down when he was a kid. Or a neighbor’s house. Everything.”

“What about the wife.”

“Obviously, her too.”

“Obviously?”

“Yeah. Obviously.”

“Okay.”

“Good. Later.”

“Later, Bert.”

“Don’t fucking call me that.” He ended the call.

Aiden was sitting on his front stoop watching Astrid draw on the sidewalk with colorful chalk. His eyes followed Lambert as he stepped around her cheerful illustration. He wore faded blue jeans and a plain white shirt with a grey zip-up hoodie, and his hair was loose on his shoulders. _Thor at rest_. Lambert didn’t say hello as he walked up, but they had already made eye contact. He hesitated on his step. _Would it be awkward to say hello now? Would it be weirder to not say anything? Should I do the head bob, nod hello thing? Fuck._ He looked down to Astrid’s picture instead. “Nice. What’s that?”

She looked up at him. “How can you say it’s nice if you don’t know what it is?”

“Um. Well, I mean, I think some of those Picasso drawings are nice without recognizing them, too. And fu—Jackson Pollack did all those splatter paintings that, you know, provoke an emotional response without even signifying anything. I mean, signifying anything explicitly. And then there’s Rothko.” He started to gesture with his hands, and then stopped.

Astrid blinked at him, and then shrugged. “Okay. It’s a park, see?”

“Never was a big Rothko fan, myself,” Aiden said.

“I see it, yeah, good job.” He looked at Aiden. “Me neither.”

Aiden’s lips curved up in that crooked smile. It was becoming familiar. His lips weren’t particularly full, but they were dusty pink, and Lambert suddenly, inexplicably wondered if he pulled at the bottom, if the inside would be the same. He could press his thumb into the soft pink and open it.

Lambert blinked a few times. He took a deep breath. _The fuck is wrong with you?_

“Where’s your brother?” he asked Astrid.

Aiden’s face darkened. He pointed down the block. Skjall paced back and forth, talking earnestly into a cellphone. Astrid shaded in something like a spiral or a rose. “He’s talking to my father.”

Lambert looked at Aiden. He shook his head. Lambert felt his chest tighten. He watched Skjall hang up the phone and walk up the street.

“They put him in outpatient treatment,” Skjall said. “He’s bringing burgers.”

Astrid sniffed and changed chalk. “Yum.”

“Come on, Astrid, let’s go inside. It’s cold. You don’t wanna get sick.” He looked at Lambert. “Thank you for fixing the door.”

Astrid calmly and neatly put the chalk in the tub. Lambert frowned. “I don’t think—”

“Lambert.” Aiden tilted his head and looked at him.

Lambert pressed his lips together. “Hey, kid, anytime. You got something needs fixin’, don’t hesitate, ‘kay? Just let me know.”

“Alright.”

“That means you knock _whenever_ you need _anything_ , you got it?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good.” He watched the kids walk quietly into their house. He stood on his stoop and ground his teeth.

“Hey.”

Lambert looked at Aiden.

“What’s next on your to-do list?”

“Cleaning. I’m never going to get all that dust cleared out.”

“What are you using?”

“Shop vac.”

“I’ll bring my Dyson over, if you want.” He made that smile again and stretched. When he spread his arms, his shirt clung to his pecs.

“If you—uh, that, that would be great.”

Aiden nodded. “I’ll bring a six-pack I picked up at this microbrewery near the docks.”

“There’s a microbrewery near the docks? How near the docks? Does it smell like hard-boiled eggs and asphalt?”

“Hey now—don’t knock the smell of asphalt. That’s the smell of summer, okay?”

Lambert squinted at him. “What?”

“Parking lots at theme parks have that… smell. You know?”

Lambert screwed up his mouth. “Hmm. Actually, yeah.” He had a visceral memory of eating peanut butter and banana sandwiches in the Joyland parking lot. _Long gone now_ , he thought.

“Alright. I’ll see you in ten.”

Lambert had swept most of the plaster and ceiling bits up. He’d taken bag after bag to dumpsters around the block. The house was still covered in a layer of white dust. Every time he swept, more was collected, but the rest was pushed back into the air. He opened the windows to help it air out, and the cool, spring evening swept through the room. There wasn’t a _lot_ of cleaning left, but he wasn’t too stupid to turn down help. He jogged upstairs and threw his work gear in his room. He started back down, and then pivoted and stepped into the hall bathroom.

The mirror was bigger here. He could see himself: dark hair brushed back—it was getting a bit long. He glared at his widow’s peak. Eskel said it made him look distinguished, but Lambert had always been self-conscious of it. He usually kept his hair buzzed short to lessen the effect, but there was nothing to be done right now.

He was dressed for work in plain, dark clothes. He wondered if he looked better in brighter colors. Aiden always dressed simply, and he made it look cool. _Cool?_ Lambert rolled his eyes at himself.

“Lambert?”

He switched off the light and went downstairs.

Aiden stepped through the front door. “You just left this open.”

“Yeah, I was letting it air out.”

“You know anybody could just come in off the street… Or stray animals...”

Lambert shrugged. “You think that door’s gonna stop someone? Besides—who would want to come in here? Only one person around has any grudge with me, and he’s taking burgers next door.” He cracked his knuckles. “And he can bring it, if he wants.”

“It’s also getting cold.”

“Oh.” Lambert looked around. “I can, uh, you can close it if you want.”

The crooked smile was back. Aiden closed the door and met Lambert at the foot of the stairs. Lambert took the vacuum from his hand and gestured toward the kitchen. “How bitter do you like your beer?” Aiden asked.

Lambert shrugged and followed him, eyeing the six-pack. “I’m not picky.”

“I doubt that very much.”

He bit his lip. “Well…”

“Well?”

“You know, these microbreweries can put out some great stuff, but there’s this tendency, it seems like, to just amp up the hops, and I know it may be old-fashioned, but I just think there’s more to good beer than bitterness, you know? Like, when you’ve got an IBU of a hundred, what effect are you going for? Because I don’t think it’s just enjoying a bottle or a pint, you know what I mean?”

Aiden laughed at that, and Lambert felt his face heat. He pressed his lips together to keep himself quiet and watched Aiden pop open two bottles. “I do know what you mean,” he said. “You’re not a fan of IPAs.”

“That isn’t what I said.”

“Not directly. But I’d wager it’s true.”

“Depends on the IPA. They aren’t all bad.” He took the proffered bottle from Aiden and took a sip. It was malty and smooth, and Lambert lifted his eyebrows.

“A doppelbock.”

“Huh.”

“I thought you would like it.” Aiden set down his bottle and picked up a broom. “This place is a mess.”

Lambert grinned. “I know, man. Quit distracting me from my work.” He carried the vacuum to the edge of the living room, to run it around the baseboards. They cleaned together for a few minutes.

“You decided on a ceiling color yet?”

“Nah.” 

“You think they’re going to be okay?”

“Nope.”

“You going to sleep at all tonight?”

Lambert just shook his head. No. Not even a little.

“I figured.” Aiden used a dustpan. “I imagine we’ll be working for a while tonight.”

“You don’t have to. I’m the one next door to ‘em.”

Aiden leaned on the broom. His eyes narrowed in something between anger and annoyance. “What the—what does that mean? I can’t care because I’m another door down?”

“No, I just mean… I’ve got it.”

“Got what? You going over there to kill the guy if you hear a thump in the night?”

“You’re the one who took a gun, not me, Aiden.”

“Because I expected you to get yourself in a bad situation.”

“You barely know me. And he’s the one who’d be in a bad situation, not me.”

“You’re going to beat him to death in front of his kids?”

“It would be a hell of a lot less traumatic than what I fucking went through.” Lambert froze, realizing what he’d said. He cursed, and put the vacuum on high. He felt Aiden’s eyes on his back, and he ignored them.

He didn’t want to see what emotion they held. He didn’t know what he’d do if the emotion was pity. _Pathetic. Losing control like a child._ A deeper, quieter voice crawled up from his spine and seemed to hiss in the back of his mind: _Always trying to slip in the victimhood and get everybody’s attention… Poor, pitiful Lambert, whose daddy didn’t love him…_

He swallowed it down and picked up a loose bolt that had rattled off of something. He slid it into his pocket. Laughter drifted through the wall from the children. Lambert knew, now, that this was a part of a cycle of abuse. He turned the vacuum back on.

As a child, for years, he thought it would be different almost every time. He would be better or he would keep her away from it. It would never happen again.

He ground his teeth together until his jaw ached. If Vesemir was there, he’d ask for a piece of gum. _Vesemir always has gum_.

_There’s nothing you could do. There’s nothing you could do. There is nothing you could do that time._

“Hey.”

Lambert stopped. Aiden’s hand rested on his arm. His eyes were so warm, Lambert couldn’t look at them. “How do you feel about chess?”

“Huh?”

“It’s a board game.”

“Yeah, I mean, I’m okay.”

“I bought a nice set a while back. Haven’t had a chance to break it out yet. How about after this, I bring it over, and we play a round or two?”

Lambert couldn’t form the words to agree.

“Seems like a nice way to spend a quiet evening, don’t you think?”

Lambert nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, that’d be great.”

“Cool.” Aiden went back to sweeping. “I’m happy you moved here,” he said. “You’re a good neighbor and a good… friend.”

Lambert felt a lump rise in his throat. He chuckled around it. “Nah man, everyone knows I’m a prick.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let it be known, for the record, that I am not from Wichita and never went to Joyland. I can only assume its parking lot smelled like theme park parking lots in the rest of the Midwest.  
> Also, supposedly it's possible to have safe knob and tube wiring, it's just that a lot of places don't.
> 
> YOU GUYS, THANK YOU for coming with me on this! This story is weird and so am I and I really appreciate you taking the ride.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note, FYI for all you youngsters who may read this: Angelfire was (is?) this groovy old website hosting site from back when your dirty pictures loaded one stripe at a time.

Each day that passed felt like a step toward a cliff, and Lambert was powerless to stop the slow march. He lied awake in the dark, straining his ears, listening to every creak of the house, every alley cat and sewer rat, and every rumbling motor for five blocks or more.

The nights were quiet. The days were still short, and the children vanished each morning for school. They returned in the afternoons, uniforms rumpled and cheeks pink from the cool, spring air. Lambert watched them pass as he changed his front light. He watched them again as he repaired a few shutters. “You’re going to scare them, watching them that hard.”

Lambert turned. Aiden had stepped out on his front stoop. He leaned against the rail. It was Friday, and the afternoon sun set his hair aflame, blinding Lambert to everything else. “Why’s that?” he asked. Aiden looked like an angel, and also on fire. _Angelfire_ , he thought. _Remember those?_ He pictured sparkling word art. He blinked. _Focus_.

“You’re out here every day.”

“Yeah, I’m working on the house. You know that.”

“Lambert, you don’t even have furniture, and you’re spending time on shutters? Why not make it a comfortable place to live first?”

“I’m very comfortable.” It wasn’t strictly true. He still only had a mattress on the floor. The living room was clean, but he hadn’t bought anything for it.

“You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

“Gee, thanks, pal.” _You were going to stop at that barbershop yesterday. I wonder what time they close._

Aiden shrugged. “I’m surprised your other friends haven’t said anything.”

“I won’t see them until tomorrow morning.”

“Saturday?”

“It’s the only day we can usually all make work.” _And none of us has family. Other than each other._

“So are you going to sleep between now and then?”

“That’s—why does it matter?”

“You aren’t going to be able to help those kids if you’re so exhausted you can barely move.”

“I’ve been through a lot worse than this.” He had a sudden, visceral memory of lying on the top of a building, watching and listening without moving for hours.

“I don’t doubt it.” Aiden smiled. It was that crooked little thing again, and his big, brown eyes were soft and warm, and the memory faded. “But I imagine these circumstances are a little bit different, aren’t they?”

“I guess.” He wiggled his fingers, and his arms relaxed.

“Yeah, I thought so. So maybe you should just rest, and take it day by day, and let tomorrow worry about tomorrow.”

“Not worrying about tomorrow just sets you up to have tomorrow slap you in the face.”

“You’re that sure he’s going to turn on them again?”

“One hundred percent. It’s just a question of when.”

Aiden sucked his teeth and looked toward the kids’ house. “So you’re just staking out their house from next door?”

“More or less.”

“There are smarter ways to do that.”

“What?” Lambert watched Aiden scratch the back of his neck.

“Smarter ways to listen… and watch.”

Lambert wet his lips. He looked hard at Aiden. “What do you have in mind?”

Aiden’s eyes quickly swept down Lambert and back up. “It’s the twenty-first century, you know.”

“I know.”

“So why don’t we wait, and then, you know… Install some eyes and ears?”

Lambert’s pulse sped. _Is he talking about bugging their house? That's fucking brilliant. Wait. Play it cool, Bert. Make sure you're on the same page here._ “What do you mean?”

“What do _you_ think I mean?” Aiden leaned toward him, over the rail. “What would _you_ do?”

“I would… see if the windows were locked.”

“And if they aren’t…” Aiden shrugged. “They’re old windows. It shouldn’t be too hard.” His hair looked soft.

Lambert ran his thumb across the pads of each of his fingers, pinky to pointer, then pointer to pinky. He repeated the gesture the opposite direction. He considered his words. “I only have tech that would need to be monitored. That doesn’t help anyone sleep at night.”

“There’s something I’ve been working on for my boss. I think I could rig it to trigger at a certain decibel threshold. Connect it to an alarm…”

“Like a temperature gauge, but for sound.”

“Exactly.” Aiden smiled, and a dimple appeared in his cheek. Lambert saw it, paused, and rubbed at his chest. The smile disappeared. “You okay?”

“Hm? Fine. I think I have a little indigestion.” _Has that dimple always been there? Have I just not noticed before?_

“When was the last time you ate?”

“I had some cereal earlier…”

“You’re probably hungry. Look,” he pulled out his phone, “it’s…” He frowned at Lambert for a moment.

Lambert watched his face wrinkle. “What?” he asked.

“Just a minute. I’m gathering my thoughts.”

“Uh. Okay. I mean, I have some soup in the cabinet. And also ground beef. There’s probably some pasta, I might even have beans. Do you like chili? I don’t know if I have any peppers. You know, there’s definitely some cheese in the fridge, and—”

“I said just a minute, Lambert, Jesus.”

“Sorry.” He worried his lip. _He’s going to think you put pasta in chili. Why did you say pasta? Because of the ground beef. But then you jumped into chili without saying anything about sauce._ “I don’t put pasta in chili.”

Aiden blinked. “I didn't think you would. Okay, here’s the thing. The furniture store on Grand is open until nine.” Lambert opened his mouth, paused, and then closed it. “You need to buy yourself some furniture.”

“I do?”

“Yes. You do. You said so yourself.” His eyes tracked down Lambert’s clothes and he licked his lips. “Seems like a good day for it.”

“Why?”

“Because the weather’s nice. We can take my truck.”

“We?”

Aiden looked down. “I mean, if you want to borrow it…”

“Would you want to come?” Lambert held his breath. He was aware he held his breath, but he couldn’t help it. The thought of buying furniture alone suddenly seemed absolutely intolerable. “You know, I’ll have a terrible time deciding on my own.”

“No you won’t. You’ve never had trouble deciding a thing in your life.”

“Well…” Lambert shrugged. Aiden smiled, and the dimple came back. Lambert felt a small thrill, like a victory. He wondered if Aiden realized it was crooked. _Is it because he’s self-conscious about his crooked bottom teeth? I’ve only seen them once. I’ll bet if I got him to laugh I could spy them again._ “You should probably come anyway. I could decide I want to do some sort of western boho theme. Buy a cowhide sofa with a Holstein pattern…”

Aiden laughed. _There they are!_ It was a tiny glimpse. “You are from Kansas. I can only imagine that is a very real threat.”

“Just imagine it with my chartreuse ceiling.”

_And another glimpse!_ Aiden shook his head. _Two dimples! How did I not see them before?_ “I really think you should go with that blue. But if you’re doing a cowboy theme, it should probably be that sort of southwestern pink, coral color. Or like a sunset orange.”

“Nah, man, I already painted my bedroom pink. I don’t want to use too much.”

“It’s called a motif.” He licked his lips, which were also a dusty pink. “Okay, but did you already pick a bedroom color?”

It was Lambert’s turn to laugh. “That’s confidential.” He leaned against the rail. “Protected information.”

Aiden nodded. “Okay then, I can appreciate that.” _Dimple._ “Why don’t you go get your checkbook and meet me at my truck in a few?”

“Checkbook? Okay, Ma.”

“Good.” He opened his door. “See you in a bit.”

Aiden’s truck was a black Toyota, and it smelled like leather and teakwood. He watched Lambert fasten his seat belt before he put it in gear and pulled out of his spot.

_He’s wasting his whole day on this. And gas money. You should make conversation_. “So,” he said. He watched a car cross the intersection in front of them. _Good start, genius. Now what?_

“So,” Aiden replied.

Lambert chuckled. _That wasn’t funny. Why did you laugh? You should say something clever. Like the largest known prime number. No, not that. That can’t be said out loud because it’s a massive number of digits—it’s like, what was it? Like twenty-four thousand digits or something. And anyway, that’s stupid because it would just go up from there to infinity. And why would you bring that up of all things? Something on topic, man! Come on. When did Aiden buy furniture? Where is it from? Is it leather? Fabric upholstery? Refinished antique? Midcentury modern? Chippendale? Shaker style?_ “You got furniture?” He winced. _Genius. Fucking brilliant, man._

“Why yes, I do.” He smirked. It looked like one of Geralt’s fucking smirks when Lambert had to put his foot in his mouth again for something.

“Did you buy it at this store we’re going to? What’s the quality like? I’m not paying for some shoddy particleboard job without dovetail joints and a decent finish.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.”

He didn’t. The shop they parked in front of was smaller than Lambert expected, and the inventory was expensive but very well made. “Oh,” Lambert said.

Aiden put a hand on his shoulder, and it sent a thrum of warmth running through him. “Let’s start with your kitchen. It’s the most important room in the house.”

“Not true. That’s the living room. I mean, other than the bathroom.”

“It goes kitchen, bedroom, _then_ living room. You have to take care of your needs, first.” He squeezed Lambert’s shoulder before letting go and ran his fingertips across the lacquered surface of a long dining room table. “The kitchen is the heart of the home. Plus, you said you want to have dinner parties. You keep forgetting.”

“I haven’t forgotten.”

“What kind of table does Eskel have?”

“Esk—what? How do you know Eskel?”

“You told me your friend, Eskel, has dinner parties.”

“You remember?”

“It’s an unusual name. Your friends all have unusual names.”

“His table has like a cherry finish to it. Lots of dark wood there.”

“And what do you want?”

Lambert looked around. He spotted a sturdy, but elegant walnut set. The chairs had wide, high backs and cushioned seats. They would be perfect for his oversized friends. “I want that one.”

Aiden flagged down a worker. “Let’s start making your list.”

The bill hurt to look at, but then Lambert remembered the number on his last bank statement. _This is what you’ve been saving for_. It took four trips to get it all home. The store stayed open late for them to make the final run.

The sofa and chairs had come after the dining room set. They were butter soft and grey, with bright throw pillows the store gave him with the purchase.

The final trip was the bedroom set. Lambert hadn’t known which one to pick. “This one matches the dining room style,” Aiden said, gripping the headboard with a firm hand.

Lambert nodded, watching his thumb stroke the finish. When he looked up, he found Aiden’s brown eyes fixed on his. He opened his mouth to agree, and Aiden’s eyes found his lips.

Lambert swallowed instead. He saw Aiden’s eyes drift lower, to catch the movement of his throat.

_Oh_ , he thought. _Oh. Oh god._

They carried the pieces of the bed up the stairs last. It was absurdly heavy. Lambert flopped down for a moment on his new mattress, and the plastic wrapping crinkled beneath him. “Fuck,” he said.

Aiden slowly lowered himself down beside him. He stretched back. “Huh. These things _are_ worth the cost.”

“I’m telling you. Once you memory foam, you never go back. But you gotta do the firm, or it mashes all to hell. And the knock-off doesn’t last like the real thing. They don’t use the same tech or something. I need to read up on it.”

Aiden rolled onto his side and studied him. “I should get one of these.”

“It’d be good for your back,” Lambert said without thinking.

“What?”

Lambert’s face heated. “Oh, shit, sorry. You don’t like to talk about it?”

“Did I tell you about my back?”

“You didn’t have to. We just moved a house full of furniture.”

“That’s why you…” He trailed off, and Lambert sat up. “Huh. Thanks.”

Lambert shrugged. “I could eat a horse.”

Aiden peeked at his phone. “Just a second.” He pointed up.

“What?”

“Hold on…” He made a face, and then the doorbell buzzed.

“What’s that?”

“Dinner.” Aiden grinned. “We don’t have to eat on your new table, if you want to you know, break it in with your friends or something,” he said, following Lambert down the stairs. “We can just, like, sit out on the stoop or something.”

“Hogwash.”

“Did you just say hogwash?”

“Sure did.” Lambert opened the door and took the bag from the delivery driver. He reached for his wallet, but Aiden passed the kid money around him. “Thanks. Now let’s try out this new table of mine.”

“Don’t think I didn’t notice, by the way.” Aiden followed him into the kitchen, voice teasing.

“What?”

“Your bedroom. It isn’t pink at all.”

Lambert smiled. “No, I haven’t picked the color.”

“I always thought bright and airy worked best for bedrooms.”

“Maybe I’ll just freshen up the white.”

Aiden sank into a chair. “This is nice.”

“It is,” Lambert agreed.

It was. It really was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are happening!!!
> 
> Next time we'll get into that bug-setting business.
> 
> Also, as some of you may know, I work and live in the education industry (as a librarian and as a grad student) and as a result, my schedule has recently been greatly impacted by planning meetings and like, emoting. That's the reason the update posting has slowed down. I'm still hoping to have 1-2 updates a week, but especially over the next few weeks, the, uh, national climate in the US is probably going to impact my productivity. On the bright side, this is one of my favorite pastimes, especially this story in particular. So, again, THANK YOU for reading it and for your kindness and support. I'm not exaggerating when I say this is really, truly helping me get through one of the toughest years of my career (hopefully ever).
> 
> [for real a meeting earlier today included this statement about a workshop on blended learning, which is a hybrid model of in-person and online: "we'll have two hours for this one, but then we have active shooter training" -- which (for those of you who live in the civilized world) is where they teach you what to do when someone is trying to kill everyone, like a fire drill, but with toy guns and ping pong balls]


	6. Chapter 6

Lambert pushed his glasses back up his nose and turned another page in the file folder Coën prepared for him. He scanned through a list of bank deposits, frowning. “Where the fuck did this money come from?” he murmured. The deposits were cash, made the third Monday of four months in a row. He flipped back to the man’s employment history. “That doesn’t make any sense.” He pulled out his phone and dialed Coën’s number.

He picked up on the third ring. “Y—eesss?” He stretched out the word. “Yes.”

Lambert frowned. “This file.”

“Yes?”

“Stop saying yes. Are you sure this is right?”

Coën was quiet for a moment. “Yes?”

Lambert rolled his eyes. “I mean his work history. He passed the Bar in Michigan, right?”

“Yes…”

“And he worked at a law firm before moving here?”

“Yes.”

“But this says he was unemployed for a six-month period before the family moved.”

“Yes.”

“Coën, I swear to god…” He tapped his fingers on his desk and sighed. “You’re coming into the office today?”

Coën’s voice was small. “Yes.”

“When will you be here?”

Coën sighed heavily. “Half an hour.”

“Good. Check in with me when you get here.” Lambert could hear a faint _yes_ as he ended the call. He shook his head.

“What was that?” Eskel leaned in his office doorway.

“Coën. He’s a snarky little shit.”

“Now you know how we always feel.”

“I am not that bad.”

“You are so much worse than him.”

“Am not! You all just give me shit all the time for nothing. Always picking on the little guy.”

“Lambert, you’re six two.”

“Exactly.”

Eskel rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck. “So, Bert, what’s going on? You’ve been quiet the past couple of weeks.”

Lambert leaned back in his desk chair. “What do you mean?”

“I mean we don’t get the running commentary of stream of conscious texts, the endless onslaught of shared political articles and YouTube videos. The weird comics.”

“Memes?”

“Whatever. You’ve been quiet. Why?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I mean, if it’s so annoying, don’t complain, right? Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, all that.”

Eskel stepped over and sat in the chair across from Lambert’s desk. “No, that isn’t right. We’re family, and if you’re uncharacteristically quiet, I need to know why. Even Geralt commented on it.”

“You were talking about me?”

“We always talk about you, dumbass.”

“What? Why?”

Eskel rolled his eyes. “The same reason you and I talk about Geralt when he’s quieter and more isolated than usual. The same reason I take him on fishing trips.”

“Because we’re all grumpy sons of bitches?”

“Geralt’s a grumpy son of a bitch. You’re something else entirely.”

Lambert scratched a fingernail into the cheap veneer of his desk. “And what is that?”

Eskel shrugged. “A Lambert.”

“Ugh. Don’t get maudlin on me. Just call me a prick like Geralt does and get over it.”

“You have dark circles under your eyes. You think I don’t notice when something’s going on with one of my guys?”

“I’m not ‘one of your guys,’ Esk. I’m—”

“You’re my brother. Always. So shut the fuck up unless you’re telling me what’s up.”

Lambert slumped in his chair. “It’s just… The new place.”

“What about it? The reno coming along? You still sure you don’t want help?”

“I’m sure. It’s not that—my neighbor’s been helping.” He felt his face inexplicably heat, so he pushed on. “There’s these kids next door, and their dad’s a real sack of shit. We’re watchin’ him.”

Eskel squinted. “As in the royal we?”

“Uh. Me and my neighbor.”

“I’m assuming this is the house on the other side.”

“It is.”

“So… What’s her name?”

Lambert swallowed. “It’s, uh, Aiden. He’s a good guy.”

Eskel continued to look at him, without blinking.

“It’s not like _that_.”

He cocked his head to the side. “Like what, exactly?”

“Like, like, you know—I mean, it isn’t like, a _thing_. It’s just, you know, we’ve been hanging out and he like, helped with the plaster situation because, you were right, okay? I admit it: it was basically impossible to chisel all that shit off by myself, right? So he helped and then we did the ceilings, and we also had to get food, you know, because I can’t just let him help me and not feed him, you know? And then we bought furniture. And one night we played chess.”

Eskel’s face was perfectly placid. “Oh?” he asked.

“Oh, what?”

“You bought furniture?”

“Mm hmm.” Lambert felt sweaty, so he lifted his arms to cool himself.

“What kind of furniture?”

“I don’t know, what do you mean, what kind of furniture? Like, furniture. Everything. The house, basically. _Nice_ furniture. He’s got like, really good taste, Esk. We went to this little shop that—why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what? I’m not looking like anything.”

“Yeah, exactly. You aren’t looking like anything—you’re doing the whole hide-your-reaction thing that you do when Vesemir gives a bad assignment and Geralt takes it. Or when Geralt shares one of his shit plans.” He swallowed. “Like when my family gets brought up.”

“That isn’t the face I make when your family gets brought up. That’s the angry face. This isn’t an angry face.”

“Can we change the subject?” Lambert asked.

“No. You seeing him tonight?”

“I’m not _seeing_ anybody. What the fuck does that even mean? I already said it isn’t a thing. I’m not even—”

“Swear to god if you try to like, assert your heterosexuality I’m going to tell Geralt and let him get preachy. You remember the last time that happened?”

“Fuck, how could I forget?” Geralt got preachy about once every seven and a half years, and it wasn’t pretty or pleasant. “And I wasn’t going to _assert my heterosexuality_. I’m not really… I don’t know. I mean, you know I talk about shit but like, I don’t, I don’t know, _date_ people. I’d rather just… I don’t even know.” _For fuck’s sake, Bert, you’re too old for this sort of shit_.

“Maybe you’re on the asexual spectrum.”

“I’m not on the ace spectrum.”

“You could be demi.”

“That’s like, getting to know people really well first, and I don’t have to—I get attracted to people, okay, it’s just, not like, a thing that happens a lot outside of an abstract sort of—why the fuck are we talking about this?”

Eskel shrugged. “I’m just trying to help. Sometimes having a sense of community helps.”

“I don’t need _help_. I need you to let it go.”

“I don’t agree with that at all.”

“I’m not asking you to agree, asshole.”

“You can lash out all you want, but I’m still gonna have your back, pal.”

“Because your romantic life is just so healthy.”

“So you admit it is romantic?”

“Fuck you.”

Eskel took a long breath. “I’d really like to see this new furniture.”

“I’m not…” Lambert huffed. “It’s nice,” he admitted. “I just don’t—”

“No pressure. Just a curiosity. I’d like to see how the house is coming along, to see how I can help. And if I happened to meet a neighbor or see these kids with the sack-of-shit father, that would just be a little extra benefit.” He frowned. “Actually, maybe it would be best to stay over a night or two if you’re trying to do surveillance on your own.”

“It isn’t on my own. And Aiden rigged up this monitor that would keep track of the sound and alert us if it got too loud, you know, like triggering an alarm. So I don’t have to stay awake.”

“Wait, what? Go back. Did you bug the neighbor’s house?”

“Uh… Yeah.”

Eskel crossed his arms over his chest. “This changes things. Go back. When did you do that?”

“A few nights ago. We bought furniture, and then we broke into Rience’s house and put a few bugs around. They’re really nice ones. Sensitive to sound, and connected to this program Aiden has on his computer that measures the decibels and if it’s too loud, it triggers an alarm on each of our phones.”

Eskel blinked a few times. “Who is this guy?”

“My neighbor. Aiden.”

“Your neighbor just happens to have everything you need to bug someone’s house, I’m guessing had no objections to just breaking in and planting them, and has tech that links this to your phone?”

Lambert rubbed his palms on the legs of his jeans. “Uh, yeah.”

“Who does he work for?”

“Well, it’s funny you ask that because I tried to find out and there’s no record of him anywhere.”

“And that doesn’t concern you?” Eskel’s voice raised a pitch.

“He actually pointed out that there’s no record of me, either.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know an Aiden. I’m coming over tonight. You need me to bring dinner?”

“I can afford to fucking provide dinner, Eskel.”

“I didn’t think you couldn’t. I just wanted to offer. Because I’m coming. You aren’t getting out of this.”

“I thought you didn’t wear your glasses to work,” Aiden said. He sat on his front step and watched Lambert walk up.

Lambert felt a strange little surge of energy in his chest, like his heart pumped extra blood with each beat of his pulse. He tried to shove Eskel’s suggestion of “romance” to the furthest recesses of his mind. _He’s nice,_ he thought. _Don’t ruin the fucking friendship_. He thought of Aiden’s eyes on his throat, and the way he had lingered at Lambert’s door after setting the bugs. He thought of the way his heart had raced all night, and he wasn’t sure why: the thrill of spying or _Aiden_? “It’s warm today,” he said.

“That’s why you’re in glasses?”

“No, that’s just that my eyes are dry.”

Aiden stood. “Trouble sleeping again?” His eyes fixed on something behind Lambert. They shuttered.

Lambert turned. “This is Eskel,” he said, watching him walk from the other end of the block.

“Oh,” Aiden said.

“Parking is shit in this neighborhood,” Eskel complained. He watched Aiden as he approached. “Hey,” he said. “I’m Eskel.”

Aiden nodded. “Hi. Aiden,” he replied.

Lambert watched them shake hands, sizing each other up. “Right. Uh, you want to come in?”

“Of course,” Eskel said. “Let’s see what you’ve done.” He followed Lambert to the door.

Lambert unlocked it and opened it for them, and then realized Aiden hadn’t come. He looked back; Aiden had disappeared. “Uh.”

“For fuck’s sake, Bert. You have to actually say what you want if you want it.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“That playing dumb shit doesn’t work on me.”

Lambert rubbed the back of his neck.

“Go get him. Invite him to dinner. Let’s play cards. Big Two?”

“I don’t know…”

“I’m not fucking asking.”

“Esk…”

“Don’t be a pussy.”

“Jesus, fuck, Eskel. That’s a horrible thing to say.”

“Yeah, well, maybe it’ll get the point across then.”

Walking to Aiden’s door felt like a miles-long trek, but still far too short. Lambert bit his lip, and then knocked. He was acutely aware he’d not done it before.

He waited. No one answered. He held his hand up to knock again, but decided to not. He sighed, and turned, and walked away.

The door burst open behind him. “Wait!” Aiden was out of breath. “I was—just—give a guy a minute?”

“Um.”

“Sorry. What’s up?”

“I was just wondering if you wanted to come have dinner and hang out with me and Eskel because we might play cards and he wanted to see the new furniture so I thought I’d order some food and if you have plans already that’s fine but I thought if you’re not busy or anything you might… want to come.” He swallowed.

Aiden smiled, and his dimples came out, and his crooked bottom teeth, and his brown eyes looked like hot chocolate. “What game?”

“Big Two?”

“I don’t know it.”

“It’s better with four players, but it’ll still be fun.”

Aiden nodded. “Alright, I’m in.”

Eskel was shuffling through takeout menus when Lambert and Aiden found him in the kitchen. Lambert watched him argue with Aiden about whether Thai delivery was better than Indian, and which restaurant would have the best tea. “Thai tea is the best tea-based drink there is,” Eskel argued.

“I can’t believe you’d prefer that over a good masala chai,” Aiden said.

“Chai is overdone. You can get chai at Starbucks. Everybody has a chai.”

“Not the same,” Aiden shook his head. “Seriously, you don’t know what you’re missing. There’s a place on 75th that has the best tea—I’m telling you.” He smiled his crooked, small smile, and Lambert opened his laptop to place the order.

“Seventy-fifth… near Main?” Eskel asked.

Aiden nodded, typing in the URL. “Yeah.”

“I have a friend who has an office over there,” Eskel said. Lambert’s eyes went wide. _Sigi has an office over there. One of several. Why the fuck would he bring up Dijkstra?_ Eskel shook his head a little.

“Oh yeah?” Aiden clicked a couple of times. “He’s lucky, then. This is one of the best restaurants in the city.” He turned the laptop back to Lambert and looked back at Eskel, face completely neutral.

Eskel nodded. “What do they have that’s good?”

“Depends how hot you like it.” Aiden’s eyes flitted to Lambert, and then down to his hands.

Eskel leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Excellent. I don’t necessarily want anything hot, but Bert here could use a little spice.”

Lambert looked back and forth between them. He felt like he wasn’t following something in the conversation—that uncomfortable awareness that someone means something they aren’t saying and he missed a piece. He ordered one of the group meals for them to share together, pulled beers from the refrigerator, and handed the cards to Eskel. “You’re dealing. First round to teach Aiden how to play.”

Eskel nodded. “Sounds good.”

Lambert adjusted his glasses. When he looked up, he found Aiden watching him. _I probably look like an idiot in these_ , he thought. He pulled them off.

“Can you see without them?” Aiden asked.

“Uh…”

“No, he can’t,” Eskel interjected.

“I _can_. Technically.”

“Why’d you take them off, then?”

“He’s self-conscious about the way he looks in them,” Eskel offered.

“Would you stop?” Lambert whined.

“No.” Eskel shuffled the deck.

Aiden's left dimple was just barely visible in his fuzzy vision. “What are you self-conscious about? They look good.”

Lambert took a long drink from his bottle. _It’s hot in here. Is everyone else hot in here? I should open a window_. He put his glasses back on. “Happy?” he asked.

Aiden bit down on his lip. White teeth pushed down into the pink, and everything else in Lambert’s mind became white noise. “Yeah,” Aiden replied. “I am.”

“Good.” Lambert cleared his throat. He glared at Eskel. “We playin’ or not?”

“Oh, we are.” Eskel chuckled. “Most certainly.” He started to deal the cards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had planned (in the outline) something a bit more plotty than this, but this chapter just asserted itself and demanded to be written. Who am I to argue with it?


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is a little short. I've been struggling!
> 
> Content Warning: aftermath of abuse/assault and violence in the beginning. Note at end for full warning. <3

The alarm woke Lambert, and he was out of his bed before he had it turned off. He pulled on sweatpants and raced downstairs. The noise was immediately recognizable to him: a fist against a door, and a muffled sob. Rience was yelling. Lambert threw open his door to find Aiden racing down his front steps. They met each other at the kids’ door.

Aiden nodded, and Lambert busted it open, again, with his foot. It hurt. He should have put shoes on. But sympathy and regret could wait. Aiden ran up the stairs ahead of him, and Lambert followed at his heels. They didn’t wait for Rience to acknowledge them; Aiden’s fists moved so fast it was a blur. He landed one to Rience’s gut, and other to his cheek. Before Lambert could join the fray, Aiden had Rience’s arm behind his back, twisted up, and the man howled with the pain. Aiden pushed him to the floor and Lambert looked around them for something to tie him with.

Rience tried to twist away. Aiden squeezed, and Lambert heard a pop. The man screamed. “Be still,” Aiden said. His voice was quiet and calm, all the more jarring against Rience’s anguished screech. “The more you move, the more damage I’ll do. That was a finger. Your wrist is next.”

“You’re fucking crazy!”

“Yes,” Aiden replied. “I am. You have no idea.”

Rience tried to throw him off, and Lambert saw Aiden move. He didn’t hear the break because of the screaming. “Fuck,” Lambert murmured.

Aiden’s face was completely calm. “You’ll need to visit the hospital,” he said.

Rience didn’t respond in words, but rather anguished, pained sounds. Lambert took a step forward. “You’ll visit the hospital, and then you’re going to spend some time away. A lot of time away.”

“Fuck you! You can’t— _aahhh_!”

“We can do whatever we want.” Aiden’s voice was low. “You hurt your children. We don’t like it when people hurt their children.”

“They’re _my_ kids! It’s none of your business!”

“It is now,” Aiden told him. “And you should consider yourself lucky you’re alive right now.” He squeezed Rience’s hand, and his face was completely neutral as the man convulsed in pain.

“Alright! Alright! I’ll go! I’ll go to the hospital! I’ll check myself into the clinic.”

“Good idea, shithead,” Lambert couldn’t help but add. “Now get out of here.”

Rience picked himself up and scurried away. Aiden exhaled and turned to Lambert. He stepped toward him. “Are you okay?” His eyes were dark and penetrating. He lifted a hand and placed it near Lambert’s elbow.

Lambert felt his body shake. He felt himself sway a little, so he took another step to cover it. “I’m just worried about the kids.”

“Of course,” Aiden said. He looked down at Lambert’s bare feet and smiled.

“I was in a hurry.”

“I know.” He looked back up at him. Lambert could see him swallow.

The bedroom door creaked as it opened, and they turned to the noise. “Is he gone again?” Astrid’s eyes were wide, and dark shadows showed her fatigue.

“He is,” Aiden told her. “Where’s your brother?”

Astrid opened the door. She led them into a minimally decorated bedroom. An ancient Barbie house sat in the corner, and the closet’s mirrored door was slid open. Skjall was lying on the floor, halfway inside the closet. Lambert reached him in seconds, leaned down, and eased him up. He had a heavily blackened eye and held his side, wincing. “That’s it,” Lambert said. “Where does it hurt?”

“Nowhere,” said Skjall. “I’ll be fine.” His eyes were on Astrid, who was fidgeting.

“When’s he coming back?” she asked.

“We’ll keep him away as long as you like,” Lambert said.

She nodded, eyes bright. “’Kay.”

“Did you break the front door again?” asked Skjall.

“I did.”

“But you aren’t wearing any shoes.”

Lambert shrugged. “Some things are more important than a bit of discomfort.”

The boy’s lips twisted as he considered the thought. “That makes sense.”

“You kids can stay at my place again,” Aiden suggested.

Astrid clasped her hands together. “Can I bring my book?”

“Hmm…” Aiden scratched his chin. “What book?”

“Judy Moody.”

“Oh, well if it’s Judy Moody then of _course_ you can bring it.”

Astrid beamed, and the sight warmed Lambert’s chest. He watched Aiden help her pull out her backpack and start filling it with gear. When he noticed Lambert watching, he nodded his head toward Skjall. Lambert turned to him. “Hey.”

Skjall grunted.

“Why don’t I help you pack your kit?”

The boy looked dubious, but Lambert followed him anyway. They worked in silence, and Skjall’s shoulders relaxed. “Thanks,” he finally said.

“You don’t have to thank me for anything. Just think about what you want to do.”

“What I want to do?”

“Yeah. I can call the, uh, people. They’ll come. Get the legal stuff started. Probably put you in with a nice family.”

“Those families aren’t nice. I’ve had friends do that.”

“I know for a fact there are nice families because I’ve _also_ had friends do that. One of my best friends did that.”

“What happened to him?”

“He got adopted.”

Skjall’s face was passive. He neatly stacked socks and underpants in his backpack. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to know, kid. This just happened. You got a real shiner there, and we need to get some ice on it or it’s gonna hurt like a son of a bitch. You two cool with Aiden?”

“He’s nice. How come you guys are always together?”

Lambert opened his mouth a few times. “Are we?” No we aren’t.”

“Every time I see you, you are.”

“He’s my friend.”

“Huh. Okay.”

“Right. You got everything you need? You got homework and shit?”

Skjall shrugged.

“Nah, man, that don’t work with me. You got homework, you gotta do it. That’s how you make a better future for yourself than your old man, okay? You learn stuff, and then you make a plan and follow it.”

“ _Learn stuff_? That’s convincing.”

Lambert bit back a smile. The kid was sassing him, and it lifted his chest, like a tiny surge of victory. “It should be convincing! You believe this guy was top of his college class?” He pointed to himself.

“No, I don’t.”

“Good. You shouldn’t.” He grinned and watched Skjall register what he had said. The boy’s smile was small, but real. Lambert grabbed his bag for him. “But I got through it, kid, and that’s the important thing. Get the diploma, get the letters, and then you got the options.”

Skjall rolled his eyes. “You sound like Mrs. Simmons.”

“Who’s Mrs. Simmons?”

“The guidance counselor.”

“Yeah, well, they gotta be wise and shit, right? My school counselors begged and pleaded with me to take stuff seriously.”

“What’d you do?”

“I took all the tests they gave me, filled out all the forms, and got out of there.”

Aiden poked his head into Skjall’s room. “Are you two done?”

“Yep.”

Skjall nodded and led them out. “You got your school folder?” he asked Astrid.

She nodded and took his hand.

Lambert walked them to Aiden’s door. He said goodnight and watched them disappear. Aiden gave him a soft, small smile. “It’s late,” he said. “I should get them settled.”

Lambert nodded. “Yeah. Yes. They need to rest.”

“Hey.” Aiden’s hand found that spot on his arm again. “You’re okay.”

Lambert wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement, so he nodded. “The thing is… When he comes back…”

Aiden’s voice lowered. “I’ve been thinking. Maybe we should, you know, do a little offense.”

“What, teach the kids to fight?”

“No, I don’t want them to have to—you think that’s a good idea?”

“I think it’s a terrible idea.”

“Me too. No, I mean like, I don’t think he’s a good guy. At all.” Aiden’s hand was still on his arm. His thumb drifted absently along Lambert’s skin.

“So, you want to…” Lambert's mind blanked to everything except the weight of Aiden's fingers.

“Investigate it. Investigate him.”

Lambert nodded. “You’re right. Check out the family. See what the options might be for them.”

“I’ll start running reports tomorrow.”

“I’ll look around, too.”

“We could… Do you want to come over and…”

“I work tomorrow,” Lambert said.

Aiden let go. “Oh.”

“But, I mean, I could probably come by after.”

 _Dimples_. “Okay. My place? I’ll cook something.”

“Sounds…” Lambert cleared his throat. “That sounds perfect.”

He got himself into his house before grinning like a jackass.

Mid-morning, Lambert sat across from Vesemir’s desk, sliding his thumb along a stack of post-it notes. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. The client is _what?_ ” he asked.

“A pornographer,” Vesemir said, typing on his computer like it had personally offended him and he was getting revenge. It wasn’t because he was angry; Vesemir typed like he was using a fifty-year-old typewriter. He didn’t look up.

“Uh. That’s interesting. Unexpected,” Lambert said. The paper flitted along his thumb with a satisfying swish.

“Why? Why would that be unexpected?”

“What do you mean _why?_ It’s perfectly reasonable to say it’s unexpected—that’s an unusual job. How many pornographers do you know? You know what, no, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.” Lambert grimaced. “Okay, but do you know more than one?”

“No.”

“Okay. So what’s going on?”

“They’re filming some videos and someone made unusual threats telling them to shut it all down or there’ll be consequences of some sort.”

“Probably religious fanatics.”

“Here?”

“Could be a rival company. How regulated is the industry? I imagine the skin business is pretty Wild West, isn’t it? Like organized crime. They made any big expansions lately? Something new and unique? Maybe they’re doing more of that VR stuff, or something really crazy, hardcore shit that—”

“Lambert, stop. I’m putting Geralt on it.”

“What? Why?”

“One, you’re working on the fire thing. Two, it’s going to require organizing an outside security team.”

“Oh. Yeah. Geralt then.”

“But I want you to be ready if asks for something. Anything. I have Eskel as his second on this, but it… feels like it could… expand.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I got a feeling about it.”

“Huh. Okay.” He tossed the post-its on Vesemir’s desk. “Well, I’ve been poring over that report on the lawyer. Some interesting money transfers. I’m cross-referencing with police reports, news stories, anything out of the ordinary around the time. You wouldn’t believe how asinine the local papers can be.”

“Local newspapers are one of the last things holding up this democracy, son. Shut your goddamn mouth about the press. You stop appreciating them and they disappear, and no one's held accountable for anything.”

“It’s like thirty percent actual news, thirty percent ads and classifieds, and thirty percent—and I’m not fucking exaggerating here—columns about people’s cats, what an old lady ate after church on Sunday, and, even more strange, what seems to be a doctor trying to start a lifestyle blog, but the saddest lifestyle blog I’ve ever seen and it’s in a newspaper.”

“Lifestyle blog?”

“Yeah, like Goop and shit.”

“The fuck are you talking about?”

Lambert clamped his mouth shut. Finally, he made a dismissive gesture. “Doesn’t matter. I’m reading them.” _Gonna start putting jade up my ass or something, probably, or start taking kelp oil_ , he thought. _I wonder if fish oil actually is that good for hair and nails. Maybe Aiden takes Omega 3s or something, and that’s why his hair is so shiny._

“Bert.”

“Hmm?”

“Get the fuck out of my office and do some work.” He flicked a piece of Big Red onto his desk. “And quit grinding your teeth.”

Lambert picked up the gum, smiled his thanks, and went to his office. He had reading to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW - The neighbor has clearly hit his son. Skjall has a black eye and other bruising. Aiden breaks at least his finger, and probably other bones in the hand/arm area, but it's not explicitly described. To avoid, read the first paragraph or two, search for "who was fidgeting," and read from there.
> 
> Sorry for the delay on this, friends. The past two weeks have seriously kicked my ass. I'm hoping (if I don't get sick, heh *sad laugh*) it'll calm down as we get rolling a bit more. The most intensive trainings I've had to deliver for faculty have passed at this point, but I'm kind of the instructional tech point person in the library, so I may be wrong.  
> Anyway! We're getting caught up to Someone to Watch Over Me!!! (story one in the series, if you're just coming into this) That means things are HAPPENING!  
> *Things* like dinner at Aiden's... and that stake-out we know he'll have to watch the *cough* gang-bang *cough*. It's about to get real.
> 
> I love you all and appreciate you SO MUCH. Thank you for reading and your kind support.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This universe is supposed to be noir. Instead, I give you: domestic fluff. With a side of Lambert not knowing how to handle domestic fluff.
> 
> Also I'm reasonably confident I didn't type any wrong names in this chapter lol so we're getting by better than last week. I hope you are, too.

Lambert pulled on a black shirt. He looked at himself in the mirror. He took off the black shirt. He put on a blue shirt. He frowned. _It doesn’t matter. You look like you anyway_. He took off the blue shirt and pulled on the black. He shook his head. “You’re fine. It’s nothing. It’s just dinner and what he found about Rience. Nothing.” He sucked in a long breath and exhaled even longer, lips parted. _Should have gotten a haircut._

Astrid answered the door immediately after the first knock. “He’s here!” she yelled. "Finally!"

_Oh. Right_ , he thought. _The kids._ “Hey,” he said, squeezing past her. “You good?”

Astrid nodded. “I finished my book but we went to the library.”

Lambert nodded. “That’s good.” He looked around.

Aiden’s house was a mirror of his. The entryway was plain, with narrow-plank wood floors that he soon learned ran throughout the house. The walls were a creamy white, and the pale color brightened the space. The furniture was plain, but sturdy, and the house was comfortable and homey. Skjall was sprawled on the sofa playing Nintendo, and he looked so comfortable and at-home Lambert was transfixed by the sight.

Aiden pulled him out of his reverie. “Hungry?” he asked. He was peering out of the kitchen. He wore well-fitted jeans and an olive-green shirt, and a dishtowel was carelessly tossed over his shoulder. Lambert’s stomach tightened, and he felt warm. He nodded, suddenly unsure of his ability to speak. He swallowed hard and cleared his throat. “How was work?”

It was a simple question, asked with dimples and teeth, and Lambert rubbed at his chest. “Um,” he answered. _Eloquent, jackass._ He took a breath and then wet his lips. “Fine.”

Aiden laughed, as if he was funny, and Lambert wondered if he really was funny, and if Aiden thought he was joking, or if he was laughing _at_ him, instead. _Oh my god do better you son of a bitch—this is why nobody wants to hang out with you_. Aiden turned back toward the kitchen, seemingly oblivious of Lambert’s angst. “You want to have a seat while I finish this up?” He gestured to a stool at the kitchen bar.

“It smells delicious.” Lambert slid onto the seat. He could smell meat and garlic, and some type of wine.

“Thank you.” Aiden checked a pan in the oven. “I think it’s about done. I’ll get the salad ready. You want something to drink?”

“Sure. Yes. I mean, that would be great.” He wiped his palms on his thighs. _The hell is wrong with you, Bert?  
_

Aiden took two glasses from a high cabinet and served them each a hearty pour of red. “I hope you like beef bourguignon.”

Lambert took the proffered glass and busied himself with sniffing and swirling it. His heart raced like a chased rabbit. Aiden’s face looked flushed, for some reason, as he sipped his own wine. _Is this Burgundy?_ he wondered. _Or just pinot noir from elsewhere. It’s good. Is it good? I like it; it tastes good. Should I say something? What if it’s not pinot noir at all? What if it’s a blend or a cabernet and I’m just a philistine who doesn’t know any better?_

Objectively, Lambert knew not being able to immediately identify a wine was not a character flaw. “This is good,” he said, rather than risk embarrassing himself.

“You like it?” Aiden filled a bowl with greens. “I picked it up at this shop over on Grand, near the drugstore. They have some interesting international foods, wine, things like that.”

“Sounds nice. You, uh, you go to a lot more interesting stores than I usually do.”

“You don’t strike me as someone who just goes shopping for the fun of it.”

Lambert took a sip of wine before answering. He watched Aiden chop herbs. “I’m not… very… interesting…” _And also have apparently lost all ability to have a conversation._

Aiden tossed the herbs into a small mixing bowl. “Well that’s completely wrong.”

The kitchen was suddenly very warm. “This is all very, uh, nice.”

Aiden licked his lips. He sliced a lemon in half and started to dig through a drawer. “You want some bread? How hungry are you?”

“I can wait, thanks.”

“I thought you and the kids could use a nice meal."

“Beef bourguignon? That’s more than nice. That’s Julia Child nice.”

Aiden shrugged. “It isn’t a Julia Child recipe. At least, I don’t think it is.”

“How do you not know?”

“It’s my mom’s recipe.”

“Your mom has a beef bourguignon recipe?”

“Yeah. I mean, kind of. She more like, dictated it to me and I wrote it down. She doesn’t really use recipes.”

“My mother didn’t use recipes either, that I remember. Unless you count the directions on the package.”

“That counts. You know, I remember in the Bush years when my dad was laid off we had some lean times. There are some pretty creative things you can do with macaroni.”

Lambert pictured Aiden as a boy, and his heart clenched. Then he chuckled. “I’m picturing you Astrid’s age, but you can’t be that young now.”

“No, I was a bit older than that.” Lambert was fixed with the full wattage of Aiden’s dimpled grin. He wondered what he’d looked like as a teenager. _Pretty,_ he thought. _A fucking Adonis._  


“Also I guess it depends on which Bush. You were probably one of those all-star athletes, weren’t you? All of that Americana and shit.”

“Heh. I may have tossed around a baseball or two.”

“I can see it now—you probably wore the khakis on game days with shined-up shoes and a button-down shirt.”

“Dockers. I can’t picture you at that age, though. What were you like?”

“Judd Nelson in _The Breakfast Club_.”

“You wish. Nobody’s that cool for real.” Aiden poured olive oil into the bowl. His hands were steady and precise.  


“Ah, man, I really do. Nah, though, I was just ready to be done. Tired of always being in trouble. And yet, still, always in trouble. You wouldn’t have even talked to me.”

Aiden bit his lip. “That’s probably true. I’d have been too scared.” He whisked together the dressing without making eye contact. His lashes were dark and long in profile.  


_ Too scared? Why? What does that mean? _ “Afraid I’d soil your reputation?”

“Certain of it.” He finally turned his brown eyes to Lambert, and the room felt charged with static electricity. “Did you wear tight jeans back then, too? Lots of black?” His eyes moved slowly across Lambert’s face, and Lambert felt frozen by it. Aiden’s eyes moved lower, and Lambert couldn’t breathe. “Kansas boy like you’d have a grease stain on his cheek and dirt under his fingernails, too, right? Crooked ball cap—for who? The Royals?”

“Technically they play in Missouri.” _No, stop it, idiot, the mood will be shot_. “I wouldn’t have worn a baseball cap. At least not for an actual baseball team.” _Shut up, Bert, that doesn't matter.  
_

Aiden grinned. _Oh god._ “No?”

“But you’re right about the dirt and grease.” Lambert’s heart thumped hard. “Though I don’t wear tight jeans.”

Aiden lifted an eyebrow and looked down, but the countertop hid whatever evidence he sought. Lambert felt an almost irrepressible urge to stand up and walk around the end of the bar, to join Aiden on that side of it, to… _To what?_ Lambert stared at Aiden’s mouth and suddenly had several thoughts about _exactly_ what he’d like to do. He reached for his glass and his hand shook. _Should I—_

“I’m hungry!” Astrid’s voice was a bright, high chirp that made them both jump.

“Are you?” Aiden grinned. “Well then I had better get a move on, hadn’t I?”

She rocked back and forth on her feet, nodding, and then she walked to Lambert. “I got a new book,” she told him. “It’s about a girl named Junie B. who talks funny.” She leaned close to him and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Skjall said his friend’s mom wouldn’t let her read them.” Her eyes were wide and serious. “So they’re _banned books_.”

“Whoa.” Lambert lowered his voice to match hers. “That sounds pretty exciting.”

Astrid nodded again. “Aiden said I’m smart and smart people read all the books, even the banned ones.”

“No,” Aiden corrected her, “I said _especially_ the banned ones because they have the biggest ideas.”

The little girl beamed, and it was like the room lightened. “Skjall reads books too.”

“He must be pretty smart, too, then, huh?” Lambert asked.

“Mmm hmm,” she said. “He got invited to the awards last year but our dad didn’t want to go.”

“What awards?” Aiden asked.

“The end of the year.”

Lambert tapped his fingers against his leg. “Huh. Must be one of those top grade things.”

“Okay, dinner’s ready. Go get your brother and set the table.”

Dinner was delicious. The meat was tender and the sauce was divine. The kids used bread to sop it up, and then leaned back in their chairs, almost comatose. Skjall let out an enormous yawn, and Aiden laughed. It was quiet and throaty, and made Lambert feel more friendly than he ought to feel at the dinner table with children present. He watched Aiden finish his wine, and his lips were stained dark from the tannins. “You ready for bed?” Aiden asked, and Lambert’s mouth opened in surprise. He realized Aiden was talking to Skjall and he clamped it shut again.

“No,” Skjall quietly protested. “I want to keep playing, if you aren’t going to…” He twisted his lips.

“You can keep playing. You can take the Switch upstairs, too, if you want. I hardly ever touch it.”

“Really?” Skjall was suddenly wide awake.

“Really.” Aiden smiled his small, crooked smile.

“I’m gonna go read my book!” Astrid was suddenly wide awake, too, as if she had remembered she could be reading instead of sitting at the table.

“Alright, just remember you two are going to bed at ten.”

“Ten?” Skjall whined. “Not eleven?”

Lambert chuckled. “He’s from the Central Time zone, kid. Everything ends at ten.”

Skjall gave him an imploring look. “Can you convince him to give us another hour?”

Aiden laughed louder. “He’s from the Midwest, too.”

Skjall pouted.

Aiden leaned toward him. “How about we compromise? What do you say to 10:30?”

Skjall’s face lit up. “Deal.” He looked up at the wall clock, which had almost reached seven. “Are we excused?” he asked.

“You never have to ask in this house,” Aiden told him. “But I appreciate it, and you are.”

Skjall and Astrid bolted, eager to start their before-bed free time.

Lambert drained the last sip from his glass and slid it along the table beside his plate. “Pushover.”

Aiden’s smile was soft in a way Lambert hadn’t seen before. His eyes swept slowly across the table before fixing on Lambert. “I suppose.”

“This was delicious.”

“You liked it?”

“Liked it? I loved it. I could eat this every day.” _I could eat with you every day._ Lambert cleared his throat, and then picked up his glass. He remembered it was empty and set it down again.

“Want some more?”

“If you’re having more.”

Aiden picked up the bottle and refilled their glasses. He sighed before taking a drink. “Now comes the hard part.”

“What hard part?”

“The clean-up.”

Lambert scoffed. “You think I’d let you clean this up after cooking all that?”

“What?”

“I’m going to clean up.”

“You’re my guest. Guests don’t clean.”

“I’m your neighbor. Neighbors do.” Lambert moved his glass to the kitchen counter and cleared the plates from the table. He rinsed and loaded them into the dishwasher, and then started to tackle the rest. Aiden took a seat on the barstool and watched him. Lambert could feel his eyes, but he continued to work. “What did you find out today?” he asked, scrubbing the salad bowl clean.

“First of all, that they’re great kids.”

“You just found that out today? I could’ve told you that a week or two ago.”

“Well, it was solidified.”

“It’s good to hear Astrid talking more. And Skjall, too. They sound like, just, kids. Not serious.”

“They think you’re a superhero.”

“Me? Then what do they think you are? Heracles? You put their dad in the hospital. Rightfully.”

Aiden ran his finger along the rim of his glass. “Heracles?” he asked. “Interesting go-to demigod.”

“Heracles’ original name was Alcides.”

“Uh. Okay.”

“In 2010 the Kansas City Royals traded Zack Greinke to the Brewers for Lorenzo Cain and Alcides Escobar.”

Aiden’s lips parted in confusion.

“In Game One of the 2015 World Series, Alcides Escobar hit an in-the-park home run off the first pitch.”

“I thought you didn’t like baseball.”

“No, I said I didn’t wear baseball caps. And anyway, I'm ambivalent about it.”  


“You still lived in Kansas in 2015?”

“Oh god no.”

“I wonder what it would be like to spend a day in your head.”

Lambert immediately envisioned Aiden shrunk down like the Magic School Bus, literally spending a day in his head. He turned back to the sink, thinking that probably illustrated the point. “Did you ever read _A Wind in the Door_?”

“I don’t think so.”

“It’s the sequel to _A Wrinkle in Time_.”

“There’s a sequel to _A Wrinkle in Time_?”

“There are several.”

“I haven’t read it.”

“It’s a weird book.”

“Okay.” Aiden turned his glass ninety degrees clockwise. “Why do you ask?”

“They have to travel to the genius kid’s mitochondria in it, and it confused the hell out of me as a kid.”

“Charles Wallace?”

Lambert grinned. _He remembers his name_. “That’s the one.”

“So it’s like _The Magic School Bus_.”

Lambert dropped the sponge and picked it back up. He nodded. “In a way.”

“I think Rience is a usurer.”

“Like a loan shark?”

Aiden nodded. “Like a loan shark.”

“Is it one of those paycheck loan places?”

“It is.”

“What an asshole.”

“Also illegal.”

“Also illegal,” Lambert agreed. “Can you prove it?”

“Not yet. I think if we could get some eyes on it, though, it wouldn’t be too hard.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“It does. But then what?”

“What do you mean?”

“Skjall and Astrid. Their dad gets convicted, he could get jail time.”

“That would keep him away from them. Good.”

“Okay, but then what? Right now, they can stay with me. He’s off at the clinic, not in the system. He gets sent up for felony usury, and child services get involved, the kids end up in foster care after all.”

_ I wonder if you have to— _ Lambert stopped his brain short. He concentrated on Aiden’s geranium-scented dish soap. _This is nice. I wonder if it costs more than Dawn_. 

“Lambert?”

“Huh?”

“I lost you for a second.”

“Eskel was in foster care.”

“He was?”

Lambert nodded. “Turned out okay.” He scrubbed a pair of tongs. “Got adopted, actually. You sure they don’t have any kind, wealthy relatives? Some house in the country they can be sent to where they’ll grow up wild and free?”

“You haven’t already checked?”

“I didn’t find anything other than the deadbeat uncle in Albuquerque.” 

“Not just a deadbeat. He seems worse than his brother.”

“I wish—” Lambert stopped himself again.

“Let’s just take it one thing at a time. Start with evidence.”

“We should take a look at his place of business, ya think?”

Aiden licked his lips. “You work tomorrow?”

“I do not.”

“Early afternoon?”

“Sounds like a plan.” Lambert dried his hands on the dishtowel that had been on Aiden’s shoulder. It was white with blue stripes—or blue with white stripes. “Thank you for dinner,” he said. 

“Any time.”

“You better be careful or I’ll start showing up demanding to be fed every night. Especially if you always cook like this.”

“I could learn more,” Aiden said, which Lambert didn’t expect. He wasn’t sure how to respond. _Please do? I’ll learn too, so you don’t always have to? Haha, this is a funny joke we’re sharing? You don’t need to learn more you’re already perfect? Oh god he’s perfect what’s happening to me?_

“I should go.”

Aiden blinked a few times in apparent surprise. “It is getting late.”

Lambert put down the towel and straightened the drying rack.

Aiden walked him to the door, and Lambert’s body felt heavier with every step. _You fucked it up. "It's getting late?" That was the worst thing you could have said. What the fuck is wrong with you? Fix it. Fix it before you go._ “I feel like I’m going to need a new belt loop after that.” _What the fuck, Bert? Seriously? That's what you say?  
_

Aiden looked him up and down. “It still looks like a good fit to me.”

_Oh god it worked anyway._ Lambert swallowed. _You look like a good fit to me. Say it. Say it, goddamn it, don’t be chickenshit._ “You…” He sighed. _That’s such a stupid line he’d probably laugh. How embarrassing._ “I’m really glad you’re my neighbor,” he said instead, and then winced.

Aiden’s lips pressed together in a tight, wry smile. “I’m glad you’re my neighbor, too,” he said.

“Okay, well, uh, goodnight.”

Aiden held the door open for him. “Goodnight,” he said.

It wasn’t. Lambert stared at the ceiling for five hours and thought about all the things he could have, should have said, instead. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this came across right. My thought is that our boy Lambert has possibly/probably never actually been in a happy house with two kids and loving adults--especially as one of those adults, coming home from work at the end of the day to a really fantastic meal being prepared by someone who is rapidly becoming quite special. He locks up and takes a little bit to unwind.  
> Also, I went back and forth between Aiden cooking gourmet and him making a nice dinner of meatloaf, mash, and corn (the ultimate Midwestern comfort food), but I thought this would be even more jarring for Lambert and went with it. Also I love beef bourguignon. Like a lot.
> 
> You all are so fantastic, for real. I'm not always very fast at responding to comments because my brain just fizzles, but I love LOVE you for leaving them--they're seriously getting me through this year.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not going to lie, I'm not totally sure about this chapter, but there are some key things I needed to have happen and this is how it came together. It feels a bit choppy to me, but I want to get this posted tonight and my brain isn't willing to give me any more for editing. I may come back to it later.  
> (and also choppy is kind of how Lambert's brain works, so I feel like it's hard to avoid sometimes in this story)

Lambert looked up at the storefront and shook his head. “It’s really called Big Dick’s Cash and Pawn. Just, like, laying it out there for everyone.” Neon signs in the window read: _Paycheck Loans_ and _Cash 4 Gold_.

Aiden pulled his hair back. “I wonder who Dick was.”

“Everyone to ever work here.”

Aiden made a small gesture of agreement. “Probably true. Unless, you know, they hire hourly workers—”

“No, no.” Lambert cut him off. “Being a part of the operation rubs the dickishness off on everyone, including the hourly workers. That’s like, Nazi guard stuff.”

“Well, I think _Nazi guard_ is maybe a little bit of a leap. They aren’t committing genocide.”

“Directly. But, I mean, the ramifications of generational poverty are like, a different kind of genocide, you know?”

“No, that’s not the same. Not the same at all.” Aiden shook his head, and Lambert scuffed his shoe on the sidewalk.

“Well, no, I don’t mean literally the same, like an equivalency or anything. I just mean that being a part of, you know, the framework of the institutional, like, subjugation of a whole, whatever—”

“But the people who are just going in and asking for a job are a part of the subjugated mass—”

“Well in that case you could say Rience is also a part of the subjugated mass. Or class, in this case, right? I mean, we’ve seen the guy’s house. It ain’t some crystal palace.”

Aiden bit his lip and shook his head. “You’re so…” He rubbed the back of his neck.

“What? I’m so what?””

“Nothing. Let’s do this.”

Lambert followed him. “It’s just, like, look around. No banks as far as the eye can see. There’s a reason he set up the shop here. You go three miles north and you can’t spit without hitting a fuckin’ accountant, but here...”

A bell chimed on the door as they entered. “I think it’s been here long enough that _he_ didn’t set it up.” Aiden quickly stepped down an aisle of beat-up musical equipment, and Lambert followed. He surreptitiously peeked at the back counter. A man sat at the counter, reading a folded-over newspaper.

“Clear,” Lambert murmured.

Aiden nodded. He ran his hand along the neck of a purple electric guitar and tucked a bug behind the overhanging lip of the metal shelf. They both looked from side to side. The man continued to read, ignoring them.

Along the side of the shop was a glass case that held a variety of electronics and firearms. Aiden bent down to tie his shoe and tucked another bug under the bottom edge of the case. “Will that even catch anything?” Lambert whispered.

“Enough.” Aiden tightened his laces and looked up at Lambert. He looked perfectly calm, as if nothing unusual was happening. “You see any books in this place?” he asked. He reached his hand up, and Lambert took it and pulled him to his feet.

_His hand is so warm. Is my hand cold? It could be clammy. That would be unpleasant._ Aiden released his hold and walked away. His face was still completely neutral.

“Oh look. Here we are.” Aiden ran his hand along a line of wilted paperbacks. He slid his fingertip across the spines, and Lambert watched it linger on a few titles.

“Anything good?”

“Nothing I don’t already have.”

“Cold War spy thrillers?”

“And a few good murder mysteries.” Aiden shrugged. “Any that strike your fancy?”

Lambert scanned the shelf. “I don’t usually _buy_ books,” he said without thinking.

“But you own a house now.”

Lambert swallowed. “I do.” He looked at Aiden, and then back to the shelf. “I mean, it isn’t like I don’t have any books. I do have some. I think that’s the only thing Geralt ever gives me. He’s not very imaginative.” Lambert scratched his elbow, considering the options. “But he means well. And I like them. Usually.” There was a torn-up copy of _A Farewell to Arms_ , and Lambert picked it up, looked at the cover, and shelved it again, derisively.

“What?”

“I fucking hate that book.”

Aiden gave him an impassive look. “Why?”

“What’s the point of books that depressing? Like we don’t already know how shit everything can be.”

“I don’t think it’s trying to teach us anything.”

“Doesn’t have to be. And anyway, it _is_ teaching—”

“Well, war is—”

“It’s terrible. Yeah. Who needs to be fucking taught that? And yeah, life can be pretty fucking miserable and people die, even when you love them, and even when you need them to live and want them to be there and, like, what’s so profound about sadness?”

“I don’t think it’s the sadness that makes it profound—”

“Then what? The clarity of his, like, prose and shit? You know which one I like?”

“What?”

“The story where the guy goes to Kilimanjaro and dies.”

“Why would you like that one? It’s sad, too.”

“It’s sad in a different way.”

“Is it?” Aiden’s left dimple appeared. “If you say so.”

Lambert picked up a Carl Hiaasen. “Much better.”

“You’re saying Carl Hiaasen is better than Ernest Hemingway?”

“He’s funny.”

“Hemingway is funny.”

“Carl Hiaasen is way funnier than Ernest Hemingway.” Lambert stared at the goofy cover art. _Key West_ , he thought. For a moment he stood, frozen in place, and considered the strangeness that he was from Kansas, and Hemingway wrote for _The Kansas City Star_ and then wrote books in Florida where Carl Hiaasen was from and also wrote books. _But_ The Kansas City Star _is really in Missouri_ , he thought. _Although Carl Hiaasen might actually live in Miami which isn’t Key West, but they’re right there. Or would it be Key West isn’t Miami? Kansas and Kansas City are separate but close, like Miami and Key West. Except there_ is _a Kansas City, Kansas, so it isn’t the same at all. The newspaper probably covers both. What did it cover when Hemingway wrote there? I should look up his articles. World War I was terrible. Did they cover that? I think they covered that. How much smaller were Miami and Kansas City in the 1920s? When did Hemingway actually live in Key West? It must have been later than that because he lived in Paris with F. Scott Fitzgerald and Alice B. Toklas. Why the fuck would you think about_ her _instead of Gertrude Stein? Is it raining?_

“Lambert?”

“Huh?”

“Are you okay?”

“Mm hmm.”

“Here.” Aiden took the book from Lambert’s hand and replaced it with a small bug. He turned on his heel and walked to the front desk. “I’ll take this,” he told the man. “Surprised you have books.”

The man scanned a sticker on the back cover. “Why’s that?” His voice was raspy, like he’d had too many cigarettes.

“I figured jewelry, electronics, guns…” He shrugged. “Didn’t think to see much of this other stuff. It’s like an estate sale.”

“We have a bit of everything. A lot of people out of work these past couple of years. Big Dick’ll take about anything if it helps someone get by.”

“Sounds like a nice guy.”

The man just lifted an eyebrow. He looked Aiden up and down, as if assessing whether he might need help getting by. “Sure.”

It was raining. They jogged to the car and slipped in. “You got it set?” Aiden asked.

“Oh ye of little faith.”

“I didn’t see it.”

“You were too busy chatting up Dick Jr.”

Aiden smirked. “You know there’s a taqueria about three blocks west of here.”

“As a matter of fact, I did know that.”

“And what is your opinion of said taqueria?”

“Positive.”

Aiden put the car in gear and headed west.

Lambert’s phone rang as they were ordering. “Bad timing,” he said, looking at Eskel’s name on the screen. "Sorry."

“Take it. I got this.”

He stepped away before answering.

“Bert, I need you to work. Now.”

“What? Where?”

“Surveillance for this porn thing.”

“I thought Geralt was on it.”

“He is. And I’m helping.”

“Helping? Why? What’s going on?”

“He started yesterday—the shoots go pretty late into the night, I guess. Anyway, one of the guards was attacked. Incapacitated.”

“Fuck. Geralt okay?”

“Yeah, this guy was off on a rooftop. Looks like they’re just playing with us. Anyway, Geralt thinks it could be this rival studio.”

“Sure. Makes sense.”

“Alright, there’s a guy named Valdo Marx.”

“Valdo Marx? What a stupid name.”

“I know. But we need you to check into him. See if he’s in town, for starters. You know what to do.”

“I do…”

“What?”

“What what?”

“Something’s up. Why’s your voice like that?”

“Nothing, I’m just getting ready to have lunch.”

“Lunch?”

“Late lunch.”

Eskel was quiet for a long moment. “You’re with Aiden.”

“Um.”

“Sorry, brother, but it is what it is. Finish up and get over there.”

“But—”

“Nope. Geralt needs your help. End of story.”

Lambert licked his lips. Eskel was right. “Got it.” He ended the call and looked up. Aiden stood in front of him. “I, uh…”

“You have work?”

“Yeah. Sorry. I can get an Uber.”

“No need.”

“I don’t want to rush you.”

“You aren’t.”

Lambert’s phone buzzed with a text message. It was an address from Coën. “Huh.” He looked up. “Oh, shit.”

“What?”

“You paid.”

“Yes?”

“You didn’t have to pay for me. I could’ve got all of it. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not a problem, Lambert.”

_ His voice is so… compelling _ . “But you bought it all, and now I’m ruining it by rushing everything.”

“You aren’t ruining anything. You have a couple minutes, right?”

“A couple, but not enough to like, enjoy a meal.”

Aiden smiled his small, crooked smile. “I’ll enjoy it anyway.”

“Just shoving it into your mouth as fast as you can? I don’t think so.”

“Well, we don’t have to do that. And anyway, I’m already enjoying it. This is part of the whole experience, you know.”

_He has a remarkable jawline_ , Lambert thought. _He didn’t shave this morning_. “I know, but—” He stopped as a woman stepped around the counter and handed them each a to-go bag. “Uh. Thanks.”

“Thank you,” Aiden said.

“That was fast…”

Aiden shrugged. “I come here a lot.”

_He ordered everything to go._ “How’d you know I’d have to leave?”

Aiden’s smile widened. “Let’s go.”

Lambert followed him back to the car, unsure if he was starving or completely unable to eat. His stomach roiled. He fastened his seatbelt and tucked the bag beside his feet. “Thank you,” he said. “For noticing, that is.” His face felt hot.

“Thank you for caring about whether or not I enjoy my food. I hope you don’t have to do anything too difficult.” Rain pelted the windshield.

“No, just, you know, basic stuff.” He looked sidelong at Aiden. “A little bit of surveillance.”

The dimples appeared. “Hopefully something interesting.”

“Probably won’t be. Based on the address, it’ll just be some rich asshole doing… whatever rich people do.”

“Watch the business news?”

“Flagellate underperforming servants.”

“Count gold coins like Scrooge McDuck.”

Lambert leaned forward against his seatbelt. “Scrooge McDuck and not just Ebenezer Scrooge?”

Aiden shrugged. “I supposed he’d be swimming in them rather than counting them.”

“Why not both?”

“Good point.” Aiden laughed.

Lambert wiped his palms on his jeans. He hooked his fingers under his thighs. Aiden’s hand rested on the console, and Lambert was suddenly profoundly curious what the skin of his fingers felt like. Were they rough? Smooth? He felt breathless. He felt like his skin was too small. The drive was too short, and Lambert couldn’t help but notice every one of Aiden’s breaths and motions. 

Aiden pulled into a parking spot outside the row houses. “Here.” He handed him a small paper sack.

“What’s this?” Lambert peeked into it.

“Your book.” The Carl Hiaasen paperback was worn and yellowed with age.

“ _My_ book?”

“I already have that one.”

“You do?”

Aiden nodded.

“Oh. Then why’d…” Lambert closed his mouth. “You’re…” His heart pounded so hard it hurt. _Tell him. TELL HIM._ “God I’m terrible at this,” he muttered.

“At what?”

“Uh… I… I really like you.”

Aiden’s eyes were dark and warm. “I like you, too.”

Lambert swallowed. He nodded. “Okay.” He nodded again. “Good. That’s good.” _Wait. Like me, or_ like _like me? Oh my god Bert don’t be such a thirteen-year-old._ He bit his lip.

“I hope you can get it into the house without getting wet.”

Lambert took it out of the bag, pulled up his shirt, and tucked the book against his abdomen in the waistband of his jeans. He pulled his shirt down over it and looked back up at Aiden.

Aiden’s eyes were fixed on the book’s outline beneath his shirt. His lips were just parted. His chest moved with a deep breath.

“That oughta take care of it.”

Aiden nodded. He looked back up to Lambert’s eyes. “Be careful tonight.”

Lambert grinned. “Sure.” The rain stopped.

The tacos were still warm when he parked by Valdo Marx’s place. He adjusted his seat, and settled in for a dull night of surveillance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course, if you read part one of this series, you know exactly what Lambert is about to see... Heh.  
> We're getting caught up!
> 
> Stay safe out there, friends. Sending lots of love and well wishes to each and every one of you.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: references/includes the filming of sex acts without consent.

Lambert realized something was off when Marx hit play on the third movie. “The fuck…” He’d been outside his house for hours, and had finally given into the temptation of his emergency stash of salty snacks. He chomped down on a pizza-flavored Combo and peered through the zoom lens on his camera. It was another Nic Cage movie—the third in a row—he didn’t recognize. He waited to see a costar and then scrolled through the IMDB app on his phone. “ _The Humanity Bureau_?” He crunched another Combo. “Huh.” _Weird._

The number of cars outside the house was even weirder. Sleek, new, expensive vehicles were packed along the curb—enough to stand out, even in a residential area. Lambert’s eyes swept along the street again. They had to be parked there for Marx’s house, they were too far from the neighbors’ to be their visitors. He frowned. _It’s dark enough_ , he thought. _Time to take a closer look_.

He closed the car door gently and crouched between his dented rear bumper and a glossy M5. He had already located the security cameras, and he’d also located a hedge that would cover him nicely now that the small front lawn was shadowed by night. “Nothing to see here,” he murmured, slipping through the darkness like a ghost. “Watch your Nicolas Cage instead…” _Even if it isn’t his greatest movie._ He considered for a moment. _Everybody says that would be_ Raising Arizona _or_ Adaptation _, but they’re lying to themselves. The action movies are way more fun_. _And what’s the point of a movie if you aren’t having fun?_ He stilled. _Catharsis_ , he answered himself. He crept along the front of the house, behind the camera’s line of sight. He knelt beneath a window ledge at the opposite end of the house from Marx’s position in front of the television and frowned. _Catharsis. Aristotle. Or was it Plato? I should look that up. Doesn’t matter. When am I even going to need to know? I might. Didn’t Plato ban drama from the republic? Focus. Yes, it was Aristotle. Poetics!_ He smiled, and then froze. Something was audible inside the house. He leaned his head toward the wall, but it was too muffled. Instead of listening in, he slowly, carefully lifted up and peered in at the edge of the drapes.

Lambert found Marx’s guests. They were having an orgy.

He kept himself upright. He could not seem to shut his jaw. It wasn’t, strictly speaking, particularly _surprising_ to witness an orgy happening at the abode of a known pornographer. He looked closer. A woman was at the center of the scene. _Gangbang. I’m watching a gangbang. Why is it called a gangbang? Is that a reference to gangs? Like street gangs? Gangbanger is something racist old people call teenagers. Jets. Sharks. Fuck, I’m never going to watch that movie the same way again. Oh god that’s wrong._ For a moment, Lambert’s mind was flooded with images of _West Side Story_ , and then he thought of the guy who played Bernardo and how he was also in _White Christmas_ as a dancer with Rosemary Clooney, which is a movie with a song about how great minstrel shows were, and also is named after a song from the film _Holiday Inn_ , in which the main characters perform a song in blackface, which so badly startled Lambert the first time he saw it, he couldn’t hold in a, “What the fuck?” that resulted in a backhand and black eye on Christmas morning. _It's probably just that it's a gang of people and you're looking at it too hard._ _But then why do they say gangbanger? Are you really just standing here pondering the etymology of gangbang?_

The woman was skinny, with small, pink nipples and no body hair. The hair on her head was platinum blonde, and she had red lipstick smeared across her cheek. She was lying atop a man, face down. Lambert presumed he was buried in her, but it was impossible to tell from his vantage point. More clearly, he saw another man positioned behind her. He spanked her hard on the ass and thrusted into her. The woman tilted her head up and groaned. _So that’s what I heard_. The man beneath her reached up and squeezed her breasts, teasing the nipples with his thumbs. Another man took the opportunity presented by her upturned face. He stepped forward, pumping his cock. She took him into her mouth and sucked, while the remaining men stood around them, occasionally reaching in to touch her skin or pull at her hair, and tugging at themselves as they watched.

Lambert was uncomfortably aroused. It was an unpleasant, unwilling arousal, like something forced on him unexpected. She pulled back, and a line of saliva and fluid clung to her lips. Her eyes were hooded, and her mouth dropped open as she moaned again, and the man behind her quickened his pace before pulling out, stroking himself a few more times, and grunting through an orgasm, which spurted onto her back in strips of white. The man beneath her gripped her hips and forcefully thrust up into her a few times before another man took position behind her and, without hesitation, pushed in.

She moaned again, and Lambert wasn’t certain it was entirely from pleasure. The look on her face, however, was rapturous. She went back to slurping at the other man’s cock.

Meanwhile, the now-spent man stepped back and slumped onto a shiny black, leather sofa with metal legs, which made Lambert shudder in distaste. It looked like something from a waiting room. He made a face, and then watched the man lean over the glass end table beside him, pick up something like a straw or roll of paper, perhaps, and snort something into his nose. _Cocaine_ , Lambert realized. _It’s a cocaine-fueled orgy. Who the fuck are these people?_ He grimaced and snapped a few pictures. He felt a chill run down his spine. Lambert hated drugs. They always made the situation worse, even when it was already fucked. He ducked back down and kept moving, murmuring, “I have a bad feeling about this.”

The strangeness was even more pronounced close up. Marx really was sitting in his living room, relaxed on his sofa, watching obscure Nicolas Cage movies. The apartment was also strange. The floors were slick, white tile, and the walls, between the expansive windows, were bare and white as well. The sofa here was a twin to the monstrosity in the orgy room. It looked uncomfortable and cold. The remaining furniture was glass and chrome, and nothing about the place looked welcoming. _Who would want to live here?_ He watched Marx crack open a pistachio, eat it, and then deposit the shell into a bowl. _He has to know there’s an orgy happening down the hall. It was loud. Plus it’s his house. And they’ve been here for hours. Surely they had to eat dinner or something._ Marx made no sign of awareness. Lambert snapped a few more photographs and returned to his car.

They finished when the movie ended. Lambert ducked down and kept himself out of sight as the guests returned to their vehicles, shut their doors, and drove away.

Marx put on another movie.

It was still dark when Lambert turned the key in his door. He rubbed a hand over his eyes and raked his fingers through his hair. He had a meeting at the office relatively early, but he knew he wasn’t going to be able to sleep.

The whole evening was puzzling. “Just weird,” he muttered. “Quit talking to yourself.” He wondered how Aiden and the kids were, and had a fleeting but intense wish he could check on them before carrying himself to his own bed. The sensation resulted in even more certainty that sleep was going to be elusive. He stood in his living room and looked around.

The renovation had stalled over the past week. He still needed to paint the ceiling, despite having the new furniture. He needed to pick up a new drop cloth to cover his things.

They really were nice. From where he stood, he could see an inviting, comfortable sofa, the warmth of exposed brick along one wall, and soft, neutral colors through the rest of the space, accented by bright pops of color. He laid the paperback Aiden had gifted him on the coffee table, and despite the smallness of the item, it added a sense of the space being lived-in. He could see his dining room table. A few crumbs on the lacquered top seemed spotlighted by the glow from the hanging light. The kitchen was tidy, but he needed to put away a few pans and utensils in the drying rack, and he remembered he needed to buy a vegetable peeler the next time he had a chance.

Lambert had a home. He rubbed his chest. He poured himself a glass of water and carried it upstairs.

The one good thing about insomnia was that it gave him time to enjoy his truly great bed. He lied on his back, spread-eagle, and stared at the ceiling. “I need to buy new curtains.”

Lambert reached onto his nightstand and grabbed his laptop. He put in earbuds. He typed Empire’s website into the address bar, sighed, and hit enter. “Resistance is futile,” he muttered. He clicked that he was over the age of eighteen. He shrugged and paid for an account, telling himself it was for work, so it was a necessary expense.

He started by skimming. The thumbnails provided provocative previews of each video’s content. He sorted by popularity. The same actor was in nearly all of the top picks—named Jaskier. The name sounded familiar. “Is that the guy?” He chewed on his lip and decided to not click. He went back to the homepage and clicked on a collection of gangbang videos, rationalizing it as an act of curiosity more than anything. He clicked on a highly-rated video and watched a few minutes.

Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves a great deal, but it took Lambert awhile to truly see the appeal. It happened at the halfway mark, when the video cut to a different angle. Lambert could see a clear view of the woman’s face, which was absolutely wrecked. She had completely given herself up to the hedonism and pleasure of it. She was limp, and one of the men picked her up like a doll and passed her to another, who spun her around and thrust into her from behind, manipulating her body as he liked. She writhed with pleasure, and he stroked a hand up her sweat-slicked back and gripped her neck. When he pulled her head back, Lambert could see her face and the promise there that she would do anything. _Anything_. And she would like it. “Right.” He felt his body respond to it, and he absently reached down and let himself pursue the arousal. The man pushed his hand into her hair and pulled on it, and she let out a throaty sound in response. She reached for another man, and began to enthusiastically suck his cock. Lambert stroked himself, eyes fixed on her expression of pleasure and, for some reason, the hand in her hair.

It was a strong hand. Firm. Surprisingly rough-looking for an actor.

He closed his eyes and thought of the hand. He imagined that hand on him, instead of his own. He thought of where there would be callouses. He remembered taking hold of the hand earlier in the day, and part of his mind told him that was impossible—he’d never met the man in the video, but the rough squeeze on his cock told him to not think of that, but to just let himself feel good. “Good,” he whispered. “So good.” He could hear the woman’s little sounds in his ears, as well as the grunts of the men’s exertion. The voices were wrong. They didn’t match the hand, which now, in his mind, had become a full arm that he recognized.

He stopped paying any attention to the video. He let himself fixate instead on that arm, and then a torso, and then, as he brought himself close, quickening his pace, the rest of the body, with kind, brown eyes and crooked bottom teeth and finally, finally, dimples.

 _“I like you too,”_ Aiden had said. Lambert heard it in his mind as he went over the edge.

He caught his breath and told himself, "We're going to pretend like that didn't happen." After he wiped himself off with tissues, he absently clicked back to the Empire homepage. NEW VIDEO blinked across the screen. Lambert took a peek at the thumbnail. His mouth opened in confusion. He clicked on it. He leaned close. “What the…” He scrolled through the video. “Oh. Fuck.”

It was the gangbang he'd witnessed at Marx's.

 _Were there cameras out?_ He hauled himself up and went down to check the pictures he had taken. “Definitely not.”

He felt a sinking feeling. _I just watched one of them. They may not have known._

“I didn’t know.” He felt sick to his stomach. “I had no idea.”

He took a scalding hot shower and managed to get a few hours of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me awhile to write because it's 2020 and everything is terrible. I hope you are okay as you're reading this, and as safe as we can be right now, and that you're surrounded by people who love you.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your continued support. I'm so fortunate to have this community to provide connection and entertainment this year. Don't forget to make your voting plan if you live in the US!

Wednesday morning, Lambert dragged himself to the office with a cup of hot, black coffee and a headache. Eskel took one look at him and passed over an ancient Altoids tin. “The little white ones are aspirin,” he said. He felt marginally better by the time Geralt arrived. He felt almost human by the time the meeting ended, and they’d given each other enough shit to forget the sick, unsteady feeling. They could make a plan. They could catch these fuckers and put them behind bars.

"This shit's fucked up," he told Eskel, eloquently.

Eskel shrugged. "Just wait until you meet them." He cast a worried glance at Geralt.

Lambert could help. He was determined to help. He spent the afternoon making calls. He spent the evening at a printer’s shop and checking the oil in the Transit van. He got home late, and Aiden’s lights were already out.

Thursday, Lambert dressed in faded Wranglers and a button-up work shirt with a “Jake” patch sewn on the chest. He dug a clipboard out of a cardboard box in a guest room closet, tucked his wallet in his back pocket, and pulled on a pair of Oakley sunglasses. He caught a glimpse of himself on his way out of the foyer and grimaced. He put on an old ball cap to finish the look.

The weather was actually perfect, and he rolled down the windows on his way out of the neighborhood. He rolled them back up when he reached Marx’s.

Half of the job was commitment to the act. He parked at the end of the block and knocked on every door before he reached Marx’s, playing the part to the letter. When Marx opened the door, Lambert did not punch him. _It’s going to feel even better when he’s locked up._ He let the thought paint his face with a sunny smile.

Marx’s eyes tracked down his body. They lingered on his denim-clad thighs, the bulge Lambert knew was visible, and the broadness of his shoulders. “Well hello,” Marx said.

Lambert took off his sunglasses and tucked them into his breast pocket. He cleared his throat a bit sheepishly and looked at his clipboard before looking up at Marx. “Hello." He let a Midwestern accent carry his tone. "Uh, I’m with Baker Radon Mitigation Service.” Marx’s eyes drifted to the Transit down the street, which had a logo magnet on each side. “We’re going door to door because we’ve detected elevated levels of radon in the neighborhood.”

“Radon?”

“Yes sir.” Lambert watched Marx lick his lips. “Radon is the second-leading cause of lung cancer. It gets into your house through the foundation and poisons the air you breathe without you ever realizing it.”

“Sounds terrible.”

“It is. But we offer free testing. We set up the equipment in… Do you have a basement?”

“Yes.”

“Is it finished?”

“Yes.”

Lambert nodded. “I can set up the equipment. It needs to sit for a few days—you have to leave it undisturbed and—is the basement a walkout?”

“No.”

“Okay, great. So you leave it undisturbed for a few days, and then I come back and get the reading. We’re offering a special right now. If you have an issue, we’ll give you ten percent off installation of the system.”

“It must be my lucky day.” Marx looked him over again. He smirked. “Do you want to come inside?”

“With my equipment?”

“Oh you should definitely bring your equipment.”

Lambert managed to not gag or make a face until he was back at the van.

The inside of Marx’s house was even more uncomfortable that he expected. The man followed him, drinking a green smoothie, and sat to watch him set up the testing instrument. “This sure is a real nice house you got,” Lambert lied. He let himself look around the space, creating a mental map. _Bedrooms, dining... Home office is over there.  
_

“Maybe when you come back, I’ll give you a private tour.”

Lambert scrubbed his hand at the back of his neck. “You, uh, you would?”

Marx licked his lips again. _Ugh. Gross_. “Jake,” he purred, “if I didn’t have somewhere to be, I’d show you right now. Unfortunately, you caught me on a busy day.”

_Fuck. I can’t follow him if I’m in the van. Shit, shit, shit._

“You don’t have to look so disappointed, _Jake_.” Marx stepped close to him. “It’s just a few days, right?”

“It only requires 48 hours. I can pick it up Saturday.”

“Saturday?” Marx’s eyes tracked down again. “So eager to get back… It’s a date.” He sucked the green drink through a straw. 

Lambert parked at the end of his block and trudged up the sidewalk just in time to see Aiden step out of his house. “Hey,” Lambert said. Aiden turned. He dropped his coffee. The travel mug was metal, and it clanged as it bounced down the steps and rolled to a stop at Lambert’s feet. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Aiden swallowed. “No, um, you didn’t startle me.” His eyes seemed to track similarly to Marx’s, and Lambert winced as he realized how ridiculous he must look to him.

“I had a job, uh, some stuff for work. Yesterday and today.”

“I assumed.”

“Because I was out?”

“Because you’re wearing a work shirt that has ‘Jake’ stitched on it. You’re just missing a grease rag.” Aiden’s eyes seemed to pause near his hip.

“I know, it looks stupid, but it works.”

“Oh, I know it works.”

Lambert’s mind blanked. He picked up the travel mug instead of replying. His brain caught up in a whirl. _Don’t fuck this up. Say something clever. You don’t have anything clever to say. Well don’t say something stupid. Maybe don’t say anything at all so you don’t make a jackass out of yourself. Tell him he looks good too. Wait, is that what he means? It works? What works? Like it works for undercover work? Or it works like my dick is clearly visible through my pants. Not clearly visible. The outline is visible. The shape. The shape of my dick is visible through my jeans. Oh shit, don’t think about it. He likes me, too. He likes me too._ He held out the mug. “Good thing it has a good seal.” Aiden smiled and took it from him. Their fingers didn’t touch, and Lambert felt a pang of regret. “I think there’s a dent.”

Aiden held up the mug to reveal a misshapen base. “Looks like it.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” Aiden was dressed in tailored blue trousers and a crisp button-down. _He does look good. Damn. He looks really good_. “Are you going somewhere? I mean, in particular. I mean, of course you’re going somewhere—that’s why you’re heading out with coffee and dressed like… Uh…”

“I have a meeting for work.” Aiden made a face. “I have to… go.”

“Oh. Right. Of course.”

“I was…” Aiden took a step toward him. “I was thinking about what you said.”

Lambert’s throat seemed to develop a mind of its own and released a noise that was half inquiry, half guttural garble. He cleared it into submission. “What I said?” _How does he turn me into an idiot like this?_

Aiden’s smile softened. “Do you have plans for Saturday night?”

Lambert’s breath hitched. His chest tightened and his stomach turned over. _Oh god._ “No, I don’t think so.”

“Good. Good.” Aiden nodded. “Do you want to have dinner with me?”

“Yes.” Lambert nodded. _Just yes? Show some enthusiasm, Bert, come on._ “I love having dinner with you.” _Too much. Awkward. Try again._ “I mean, it’s always fun. We have a lot of fun.” _Why are you like this?_ He put his hands in his pockets, but the tight fit meant he had to squeeze his fingers in, so he slid them in the back pockets instead.

Aiden blinked. “I mean—I want to be clear. I’m asking you on a date.”

Lambert felt shaky. “I would… I would really like that.”

“How about this: I’ll pick dinner, you choose the entertainment.”

“Okay, yes, that sounds good.”

“Dinner at six?”

“Six it is.”

Lambert unlocked his door and collapsed on his sofa. He stared at the blank TV screen.

When he checked his phone, he discovered three hours had passed.

Lambert spent Friday morning cleaning his kitchen, and then sat down at the polished table to work. He fast-forwarded through endless audio from the pawn and loan shop. He noted another timestamp in a spreadsheet and copied a clip into another file. He looked at the clock. “Thirty-two hours,” he murmured. His cell vibrated with a call. Vesemir. “Yeah?”

“Bert, I got a job for you. Priority.”

“What is it?” He closed his laptop and stood.

“Massage parlor. I need you to go check it out. It’s related to this porn thing.”

“They’re filming porn at a massage parlor? More hidden cameras?”

“I don’t know. Check it out.” Vesemir sighed. “I have a bad feeling about all of this.”

“How bad of a feeling?”

“Real bad. I just hope I’m wrong. It’s been less than a week, and Geralt’s in deep.”

“Shit.” Lambert shook his head. “I had a bad feeling, too, when I was at that asshole’s the other night. It checked out.”

“When are you going back over there?”

“Tomorrow. Hopefully the slimy bastard’ll give me enough space to get something done. Otherwise I’ll be trying to get a window unlocked for a return visit.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come down to that.”

“Yes. We can only hope.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought this would be longer, but there's a lot that needs to happen in the next chapter that didn't make it in this one.
> 
> If you're trying to keep track:  
> Tuesday - Lambert spies on Marx  
> Wednesday - Meeting at the office, Lambert works all day, and Jaskier's apartment is broken into at night  
> Thursday - Lambert sets up radon equipment lmao; extra guard is on the set at the warehouse that night  
> Friday - Lambert gets call to go watch the massage parlor; this night is when the guard gets tied up at the warehouse and Jaskier does his cam show
> 
> Half the challenge of getting this chapter written was taking the time to figure out the timeline, and now that that's sorted, I hope to have the next one written faster. I had a few really big after-work obligations these past two weeks for professional organizations I'm in and such, and those are past now! And I think I managed to pull everything off, somehow! Now it's just fic and more grad work until January/February when I have the next crunch (this is what happens when you can't say no and people ask you to take on "leadership roles" lol).


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive my typos. I'm very tired, and will correct them tomorrow.
> 
> TW: briefly mentions the *possibility* that a drink has been roofied (it has not).

Lambert munched a handful of corn nuts and squinted at the massage parlor. It looked benign. It looked normal. Discreet. He frowned. “Too discreet?” he asked himself. He ate another handful.

In the half hour he’d been watching, three men had entered, and two had left. They were all dressed in a similar fashion: business casual, cul-de-sac _nice_. Vanilla. Their cars were nice, but not too nice. Their hair was neatly trimmed. Average sizes. Nondescript. “Where are all the women?” A delivery truck obscured his view for a moment, and he checked his phone. It was silent. The truck passed, and the parlor’s door opened. A man came out—the first one he’d seen arrive. “Thirty-minute special.” The man looked like all the others: thin shoulders, paunch, but a different quality to his stride. “Relaxed? Or _relaxed_? Stop talking out loud, weirdo.” He cleared his throat and ate more corn nuts.

He took notes. He looked around the street. _It doesn’t really make sense, though_ , he thought. _It’s the twenty-first century._ “You can just open a sweat shop now. Sex shop. Sex. Heh.” _Works both ways._ He huffed. “Right.” The street was a dull commercial area—not too trendy, but far from dead. There was a gas station and a bank, and a shop with a bright, neon cell phone sign in the window. Lambert looked at the building façade. “That used to be a Radio Shack.” He squeezed his hand in a fist, remembering a Radio Shack visit, probably 1998. He thought of Astrid and Skjall curled up, cozy, on Aiden’s couch, and let out a long, slow breath.

He unscrewed a Frappuccino lid and took a drink, then grimaced at the flavor combination. He reached behind his seat for a bottle of water that was bound to be rolling around somewhere. “Why a massage parlor? Why not one of those peep show joints? A-ha!” He wrapped his fingers around the bottle, victorious. He held it up and considered. _It’s water. Water doesn’t go bad. Yes it does, you could totally die from that on Oregon Trail. That’s a game and not real life; you can’t get diphtheria from fucking… what is this? Ozarka? Nestl_ _é. Whatever._

 _Is diphtheria the one from water? Or is that dysentery? That’s the thing, right?_ He unlocked his phone and typed “drinking stagnant water” into the search. He scrolled through the results, and then searched for “dysentery.”

“Oh god.” He made a face. Another man approached the shop. This one was in a suit. “Your pants are too small.” The man turned and looked behind him before he entered. “Huh.” Lambert wrote it down, along with the man’s license plate, for good measure. He took a photograph of his ten-year-old Infiniti.

The door opened again and another man left.

Lambert took pictures. Eventually, he opened his Twix. He thought about how the Oregon Trail started in Independence, Missouri, which made him think of Harry Truman, which made him think of atomic bombs and also opera, and then that scene from _Citizen Kane_ with the clapping. He drank more of the Frappuccino.

There was a boy Lambert went to school with named Rhys, who did theatre and choir, and the school put on _Guys and Dolls_ for the spring musical. Rhys played the Brando part and sang that “Luck Be a Lady” song at the preview assembly and everyone laughed at the growl in his voice, but Lambert had walked out instead and smoked a cigarette outside the boiler room behind the temporary classroom trailer the school never got around to making temporary.

Lambert didn’t smoke. Rhys wore a black, braided bracelet on his left wrist and his fingernails were so very clean.

Lambert wished, sometimes, that he smoked.

“This guy, Radovid,” said Eskel. “Seems pretty obvious the other guy—”

“Marx?”

“Yeah—he’s only able to fuck with Jaskier and them because of his connection there. Other than that, he’s just a failed actor who dropped out of college.” He quietened, and Lambert followed his gaze.

Geralt’s new porn star boyfriend sauntered through the doorway to the office conference room like he belonged there. He had bright, quick eyes and a mouth that looked like it should be—Lambert stopped himself. He looked at Eskel, and saw he was thoroughly unimpressed, which wasn’t surprising. Lambert watched Geralt absently pull out a chair for him, as if he was just the type to pull out chairs for people. _Oh_ , Lambert thought.

“Oh my, what a terrifically scary bunch you are,” Jaskier said with a smirk. “You’re… Eskel, right? I’ve seen you at the warehouse.”

“Hello Jaskier,” Eskel answered.

That brought Jaskier’s gaze to Lambert. _Thank god I didn’t watch those videos of him_. “Which makes you… Lambert? The spy?”

 _Spy? ...There was that time in Armenia with the Rolls and the duck—_ Geralt and Eskel interrupted his thoughts with their laughter. “First of all,” Lambert complained, “fuck you two.” He turned to Jaskier. “Second, yes, I’m Lambert.”

“Sitting outside a massage parlor doesn’t make you a spy,” Eskel scoffed.

Lambert glared at him. “I found out they were recording those people,” he reminded them.

“Because you happened to find the video of the orgy they recorded… Just part of your investigation?”

 _Fuck_. Lambert swallowed.

“There’s nothing wrong with watching a little porn from time to time,” Jaskier said. He kept talking, but Lambert’s brain shorted out to static. He lost track of the conversation until Jaskier said something about them all winding up dead. _Probably_ , he thought. _Eventually_.

 _But not until after my date_ , he thought. _After the radon. Ugh._

“Well, well, well.” Valdo Marx leaned against his doorway like it was comfortable.

His eyes lingered on Lambert’s body, and Lambert thought, _This must be what Jaskier feels like all the time_. He resolved to not gawp the next time he saw him. _But he does it for a living, so maybe he likes it._ _Oh fuck. Do I stare at Aiden like that? Oh._ Fuck _. Does Aiden stare at_ me _like that? No. No, I would notice._

“Hey... I’m here to pick up the equipment and the, uh, final reading.” _Would I notice him staring like that? You’re such a moron, Bert, you probably wouldn’t._

“Well, _please_ , come inside and make yourself at home, Jake.”

Lambert forced himself to give a flirtatious smile. He ran a hand through his hair and stepped around Marx. “Thanks.” He walked toward the stairs. “I’ll just—”

“You remember the way?” Marx batted his eyelashes. _What a creep_. “It must’ve stood out to you. I’ll bet you make lots of these… house calls.” His eyes found Lambert’s dick.

Lambert let his tongue flick out to wet his bottom lip. He returned the look. _Ugh._ _Keep it together, Bert, and you can lose him in a few minutes._ He turned and led the way downstairs, to the testing equipment. He put his hand on the tripod, and then made a soft coughing sound. “’Scuse me. These allergies.”

“It’s terrible this time of year. Can I offer you… a beverage?”

 _Barf_ , thought Lambert. “Oh, gee, that’d be… great.” He licked his lips and cleared his throat again.

“I’ll be back before you even know I’m gone.”

Lambert opened the case before Marx made it up the stairs. It would take twenty-five seconds to collapse each of the stands, and another five seconds to pack each one the rest of the way up. He scanned the room. _Is that a painting of Jaskier? Holy shit it is._ It was like that terrible Polish movie on Netflix that wasn’t technically porn but had to at least qualify as softcore, where the mob boss kidnaps the woman and she gets Stockholm Syndrome… He vaulted over a weird, mod-styled sofa and tried a door handle.

 _Home gym_. _Sauna._ The floor creaked above him. He opened the next door. Inside, the room was empty except for a dentist’s chair. “The fuck?” he whispered.

He heard a pop. _Is he opening champagne?_ “Find something, Bert. Find something…” He moved to the next door. _Storage room?_ The shelves were mostly empty, except for an enormous, plastic Easter basket full of green, plastic grass and a set of Louis Vuitton luggage—the monogrammed design. Lambert looked closer. There were airline luggage tags on two of the bags. He tore them off. _How long has he been up there?_ He breathed through his mouth and reached for the zipper of the carry-on. The top stair creaked.

Lambert cursed under his breath and dashed back to the cases. He broke them down the rest of the way, slotted them into the carrier, and slid it over his shoulder. _Too bulky._ He turned in a circle, cursing again. He removed the pack and took one of the cases out. He slipped the luggage tags into his back pocket. “You know,” Marx said as he stepped into view, “you have quite the build. Have you ever considered modelling?”

“Modelling?” Lambert chuckled.

“Absolutely. I’m a bit of photographer myself.” Marx handed him a champagne flute. “Cheers.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“Does there have to be one? Is not life itself worth celebrating sometimes?”

 _Jesus Christ._ “Heh. I guess so.” He took a small sip. _I swear to fuck if there’s Rohypnol in this…_

“Do you have some time?”

“Time?”

“For a portrait setting. We could do some quick shots. I have a friend in the business we can send them to.”

“Oh,” Lambert chuckled. “I don’t know.” _I think Aiden hired a babysitter_.

“It won’t take long.”

“Well… Why don’t you show me what you got.”

Marx smiled like a Cheshire cat. “Come on upstairs with me.”

“I should probably, uh, put these in the car first.”

“Mmm, go ahead and take care of it. I’ll be waiting.”

Lambert set down his glass and carried the cases to the van. He opened his text thread with Vesemir, sent, _Marx 30 min_ , slipped the luggage tags out, and then slammed the door shut.

Marx was waiting in his entryway. “I told you I’d give you le gran tour.” Lambert managed to not roll his eyes. “Have you ever been to France?”

“No, can’t say that I have.”

“I have a very Parisian photography style. Come this way. That’s just the dining and kitchen. Bathroom. Office. Guest bedroom. My studio… is back this way.”

 _Office._ Lambert nodded.

“Here we are.”

The room looked different without a gangbang. Cleaner. Sterile, even. “It’s nice.” _It’s not nice_. Marx opened a cabinet and took out a camera and tripod. Lambert tried to evaluate where the hidden cameras were.

“Have a seat there. You’ll look so sexy against that backdrop.”

“Sexy?”

“Mmm. Why don’t you undo one of the buttons on your shirt, Jake?”

Lambert hummed. “I mean, if you think that’ll look better.” He flicked a button open.

“Just sit back and I’ll snap a few—” Marx’s phone rang.

 _Thank fucking_ _god_. Lambert tried to clear his mind. _How the shit are you going to get out of this and to the office without him fucking noticing you absolute idiot?_

“What was that?” Marx asked into the phone. His voice moved a pitch up. _Interesting_.

“I’m just going to use the bathroom,” Lambert mouthed, pointing.

Marx made a dismissive motion. “He’s meeting _who?_ ”

As soon as he was out of sight, Lambert scampered down the hallway like a frightened animal. He closed the bathroom door from the outside and went into the office instead. He unlocked the window.

 _Computer. File cabinet. Credenza. That’s a credenza, right? Yeah. Credenza. Liquor cabinet._ He looked more closely at the computer. “Huh.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Right.” He peeked out, and then made his way back to the “studio.”

“Jake, I am so sorry to do this, but I’m afraid something has come up.”

“Oh?”

“Unfortunately… An old colleague of mine who I haven’t seen in some time. I’ll just have to wait for the test results to come in.”

“Yes sir.”

Marx’s grin was grotesque. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

Lambert parked behind a gas station a mile away and took the magnets off the sides of the van. He texted Vesemir he was okay, and then put his phone in the console. He locked the Transit and took off at a near-sprint. He was back at Marx’s in five minutes—just in time to watch him pull away from the house.

Lambert counted to thirty before creeping up to the house. The grass was dryer than the last time. He removed the screen, pushed the window open, and hauled himself into the house.

It’s amazing how little security people put on technology inside their homes. Lambert had just about uploaded everything of interest to Dropbox when he heard the front door.

“Fuck.” He signed out, took a calming breath, and cleared the browser history and cache.

“Well I want to know exactly what she’s been doing,” he heard Marx yelling, “the whole fucking time! I want to know every dick she’s sucked and every cardboard box she’s slept in!” The volume increased.

Lambert clicked to set the computer to sleep. He wasn’t going to get out the window in time.

“And I want to know everything there is to know about this new little boytoy. What even is that hair?”

He slid the window shut. _Under the credenza? Not enough space. Closet_.

The door clicked shut as Marx came through the office door. Lambert heard him sit at the computer and start to click and type.

He was still listening an hour later.

And an hour after that.

On the one hand, the situation perfectly demonstrated why he didn’t bring his phone.

On the other hand, the situation would have been dramatically improved if he had his phone.

When Marx started watching videos, Lambert managed to sink down to seated position. Then his feet went to sleep.

 _He has to get tired eventually_.

When Lambert reached the Transit, his phone said it was 3:17 am. He had one missed call from Aiden, and no messages.

He chewed his lip so hard on the drive home, he tasted blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We can't just have it be easy, can we?
> 
> Be careful out there, everyone.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That last chapter was mean, so here's this one. ;-)

Lambert slammed the Transit door shut and scrubbed his hands over his face. His limbs were stiff. He stepped up onto the sidewalk and froze.

The streetlight cast the rowhouse fronts in a golden haze, turning the red brick and black iron into a storybook illustration. In the foreground, a dark shadow shifted and unfurled like something from a dream. It stood and turned, and Lambert felt like something had reached into his chest and tightened its fists around his lungs.

“Hi,” he said. His voice was quiet in the stillness of the night.

“You’re okay.” Aiden’s voice was raspy, like he’d been sitting, silent, for hours, or had just woke up.

Lambert took a breath. “I’m so sorry.”

“But you’re okay.”

“Yeah. I mean, I’m a little sore, but—are you?”

“Of course.”

“No, you’re moving like—”

“It’s fine.”

“How long have you been sitting here?”

“What time is it?”

Lambert checked his phone. “Quarter of four.” He frowned. “Your back hurts.”

Aiden yawned. He shrugged. “You’re okay.” He turned and took a step up his front steps.

“Wait…”

Aiden looked back at him. He lifted his eyebrows.

“I didn’t want to—that is, I mean, I wanted to—not miss—I didn’t want to miss, or I wanted to not miss— _fuck_.” Lambert huffed. “This is useless,” he mumbled.

Aiden’s mouth quirked up into his crooked smile. “You think you had one chance and you missed it, don’t you?”

“Well…”

Aiden turned toward him. “Like a game. You didn’t make the catch, and that’s the only play you’re in.”

“I—”

Aiden stepped down. “You know, this isn’t a game.” He took another step toward Lambert. “And it isn’t a movie or book. You’re not trying to catch me at the airport before I move to Denver or something.”

“Denver?”

“You know…” He reached out, and Lambert held his breath. Aiden traced a finger around the name patch on his shirt. “I’m just going to be honest with you because, well, I’m tired and we’re both too old to act like kids.”

Lambert leaned forward.

“I think that what you need is someone who is going to take their time. Someone who is going to carefully peel back your layers.” Aiden wet his lips and continued. “I think it’s going to take a soft hand.”

“Soft?”

“Yeah. Soft.”

_If I put my hand on his, will he…_

“And I think you’re having a really difficult time getting that through your head. And I know—I know you’re used to being the smartest person in the room—don’t roll your eyes—and you think you know better than everyone, so when _you_ think you don’t deserve something or just that it isn’t going to happen, you think you’re right…because you always have been before. But here’s the thing, Lambert: you haven’t ever seen anything like me before.”

Lambert swallowed. He took a deep breath.

Aiden’s hand flattened on his chest. It shifted, incrementally, to his side. “So here’s what we’re going to do.” He stepped closer, and Lambert instinctively reached for his hips. “First, we’re each going to go inside. We’re going to get the few remaining hours of sleep we can get. Then we’re going to wake up and have breakfast. We’re going to do a little work—maybe a little reading.” He spoke slowly. “And then we’re going on a date, and you’re going to tell me exactly where you were tonight, why it’s so important it required you to create an entire business to search someone’s house—or you’ll tell me if, unsurprisingly, that’s just how you always do things. And then you’re going to ask me whatever questions you have, and I’m going to answer them, too.” His hand tightened on Lambert’s side. “And after that, we’re going to come back here and put the kids to bed. And then…”

Lambert shivered. “Then what?” he whispered. He dug his thumbs into the denim of Aiden’s jeans.

Aiden leaned in. Lambert’s heart pounded, and his breath hitched. He felt Aiden’s lips against his ear. “Then we compare notes on the pawn shop,” Aiden whispered.

Lambert’s shoulders shook with quiet laughter, and Aiden released him. “Well, then I hope you’ve been doing your homework because I have binders of notes. Sons of bitches are as subtle as a, a, a I don’t know. Something not subtle.”

Aiden chuckled. “I think you’ll be pleased.” He turned and walked back up his front steps. “Now go to bed, Lambert.” He opened his door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Lambert woke slowly. He stretched, and enjoyed the way his mattress seemed to hug his body. He was warm, and his blankets were heavy and soft. He had missed his date with Aiden, but it was going to be okay.

He was going to be okay. He already was okay.

He made oatmeal with berries and honey, and his coffee was perfect. Afterward, he opened his laptop and caught up on the pawn shop audio. He had more than enough audio to show there was criminal usury happening at the shop. The question was really what the kids wanted him to do with it—and what would be best for them.

He closed his laptop and sprawled on his couch, staring up at the ceiling. He imagined it blue, and then green. “Black. I should just paint it black.” He could put those glow-in-the-dark stars on it. “Or red.” _It’d look like a sex dungeon._ He looked at the rest of his furniture. “Actually no, it wouldn’t.” He picked up his Carl Hiaasen. “What’s happening, Florida?”

At five, Lambert showered. He brushed his teeth again and shaved. He looked at himself in the mirror.

Lambert’s body wasn’t gym-muscled—hadn’t been for some time, really. He supplemented his work with boxing, sure, but his bulk mostly came from labor. Everyone in the family asked him for help with their manual tasks. Even Eskel, who could do everything himself. He flexed. “Maybe a little gym-muscled.”

He rolled his eyes at himself and looked at his aftershave. He opened a drawer and used the expensive one instead. He put in his contacts.

“Boxers or briefs?” He stopped for a moment. “Oh god. This is happening.” He felt an unnerving flutter in his chest. “Deep breaths, Bert.” _How long has it been?_ He scratched his cheek.

_Years_.

He pulled on a pair of boxer briefs. _Happy medium_.

Lambert dressed in dark jeans and a dark shirt. He didn’t have many shoe options, so he went with black boots. He pulled on his “nice” jacket and locked up, and then walked next door. He rubbed his palms on his jeans, and then knocked.

Astrid opened the door and shouted, “He’s here!” She grinned, and pulled Lambert inside.

“Well hi to you, too.”

“You’re going on a date.”

“Uh… Yes.”

She nodded. “Can I come?”

Lambert knelt down to eye-level. “Well then it wouldn’t be a date.”

“Oh.” She frowned. “Then I don’t want to.”

“Don’t want to what?”

Lambert looked up. Aiden’s hair was pulled back, and he wore soft-looking denim and a crisp, sky blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up. Lambert opened his mouth to answer, but he couldn’t form words. Astrid wrapped her arms around him for a hug, giving him a moment to recover.

“Okay, Skjall, Astrid, you’re going to play Mario Kart with Fatima, and then she’s going to order a pizza. What topping are you getting?”

“Cheese!” Astrid shouted. Skjall looked up from his book and gave a thumbs up.

Lambert’s phone rang. He frowned. _Eskel_. He swiped to reject the call.

“Everything okay?” Aiden asked.

“Yeah. He can leave a message. I mean, it’s Sunday night—not a lot going on.”

It rang again. “It’s fine,” Aiden said, “it could be important.”

Lambert frowned and swiped up to answer. “Yeah?”

“Bert. I’m on a job… You got the Transit van?”

“What job? They aren’t filming—” He looked down at Astrid and cleared his throat. “They aren’t working until tomorrow.”

“One of the survivors is going to testify. She’s…” Eskel sighed.

Lambert looked at his phone. “Did you just swoon?”

“Did you?” Eskel retorted. 

“Don’t fucking start with me, asshole.”

Aiden shooed Astrid away, and Lambert bit his lip. Eskel chuckled his low, garbled laugh. “How is he?”

“Better if we weren’t having this conversation _right now_ …”

“Oh, you got your head far enough out of your ass to ask him—what am I saying? He asked you out?”

“Fuck you, I can take—”

“Initiative? No, you can’t. You’d put it off until Judgement Day, waiting for the right moment.”

“Do you need something?”

“Actually, yes. I need you to listen to me very carefully.” His voice went serious. “I need you to understand something, little brother. You are a Good Person. And I haven’t spent as much time with Aiden as I’d like, but he also seems like a Good Person. You got that?”

“Yeah.”

“You both deserve something good, so don’t fucking psych yourself out like the neurotic head case you think you are. You aren’t, bro. Just relax and let it happen.”

“I just can’t believe _you’re_ trying to give me advice on this. If anything, I should call Geralt. Or _you_ should call Geralt. What’s her name?”

“Essi.”

“Essi. You need the Transit?”

“No, don’t want to interrupt your date.”

“Are you going to take your… Corsica or whatever?”

“It isn’t a Corsica. And no… I’m taking the bike.”

“The bike? It’s going to be like forty-five degrees tonight!”

“Fifty-two.”

“Right, well, take an emergency blanket. Maybe a hot water bottle.”

“I’ll wear my riding jacket.”

“Be careful.”

“I won’t call unless it’s an emergency.”

“I won’t answer unless it’s an emergency.”

The evening was already cool, and Lambert thrust his hands into his jacket pockets and followed Aiden to his car. When he didn’t stop, Lambert hustled to his side. “What—”

“What?”

“Are we not taking your car? My car is not great.”

“It isn’t a Corsica.” Aiden’s dimples appeared.

Lambert grinned. He felt warmer. “No. Neither is Eskel’s.”

Aiden kept walking. “We don’t need to drive.”

“Did you call an Uber or something? The bus line through here is always late.”

“We aren’t going that far.”

“We aren’t?”

“No.”

“Um. Are we going to someone’s house?”

“It’s a restaurant.”

“I’m just saying, you know this is all zoned residential—”

“Who’s lived here longer?”

Lambert pressed his lips together. “You.”

“You know you’re adorable when you pout.”

Lambert’s chest throbbed. “I… am… not…”

Aiden’s laugh came out in a quiet breath. “It’s just up here.”

The restaurant was a brick two-story on a corner. It looked like a house, save for oversized windows and a discreet little sign. Aiden led him to the host, who led them to the back, where a courtyard was strung with fairy lights and dotted with heaters. “Is this okay?” Aiden asked.

Lambert felt like he was getting an ab workout. “It’s perfect.”

The music was soft, and the other guests spoke to each other in low, private tones. Lambert lifted an eyebrow, and pulled out a chair for Aiden. Aiden grinned and sat. “Red wine or white?”

“I like both.”

Aiden sniffed. “That’s a relief.”

“Is it? We can order by the glass.”

“I’m not talking about wine.”

“Oh.”

“Lambert.” Aiden picked up the wine list. “Can I ask you something?”

Lambert nodded.

“We’ll start with the sauv blanc,” Aiden told a waiter. After he disappeared, he looked at Lambert. “How many serious relationships have you been in?”

Lambert took a deep breath. _Here we go._ “None. You?”

“I was married.”

“I know.”

“Two. You ever been with a man before?”

“No. You?”

“Yes. When was the last time you went out with someone?”

“You’re really interrogating me.”

“When?”

“Four years ago.”

“Dry spell?”

“Busy.”

“I see.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“When was the last time you did this?”

“This? Never. Dated… about four months.”

“What do you mean, never? You’ve been with other guys.”

“You’re more than just a guy, Lambert. Where were you last night?”

“Hiding in the closet of a pornographer’s home office while he jerked off—” The waiter returned with the wine. If he heard anything, he didn’t say a word. He let Aiden inspect the bottle, opened it, poured a taste in his glass, and waited for him to approve it. Aiden didn’t start laughing until he had gone again.

“Where were we?”

Lambert pressed his face into his hand. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I take it the cover ID didn’t hold up?”

“No, it did. I just had to go back to get into the office.”

“Did you find what you needed?”

“I don’t know. I send that stuff on to Coën. One of the guys. He’s the egghead.”

Aiden raised an eyebrow. “You’re calling someone else an egghead?”

“I am _not_ an egghead.”

“Okay, if you say so. You know what you want to eat?”

“No, of course not. You’ve been interrogating me.”

“The woman who started this restaurant is from Lombardy. Everything is good.”

“Why is she here? Isn’t that, like, Lake Como?”

“Life’s funny like that sometimes. And we have ocean.”

“Italy has the Mediterranean.”

“Not in Lombardy.”

“They have Lake Como. And Venice is like, a day trip, which is the Adriatic or whatever. Besides, everything in Europe is like, super close.”

“Your perception is skewed because you’re from Kansas.”

Lambert started to argue, but then realized he was probably right. “I’ve never been to Venice,” he said instead.

“You’d love it, but you’d hate the other tourists.”

“That’s the thing, right? It’s the catch twenty-two. Everybody wants to see it. Nobody wants to be the tourist, with the sad little camera bags and the fucking fanny packs.”

“Fanny packs can be quite fashionable, you know.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not from Lombardy.” Lambert took a sip of his wine. It was bright.

“Touché.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?” Aiden asked. “I already told you I’ve been.”

“You didn’t. You said I would like it. I also know I’d like Florence, and that’s just from watching that fucking _Hannibal_ movie when it came out.”

“The movie, not the show?”

“Do I look like I watched the _Hannibal_ show?”

“Yes.” Aiden gestured to the setting. “And Hannibal would love this place.”

“He’d probably eat me.”

“Probably. But only because he wanted to consume you.”

Lambert squinted at him.

“You’d have to watch the show…” Aiden sipped his wine. “Which you would like. Besides—how were you old enough to see _Hannibal_ when it came out? That was, like, 2000.”

“No, it was after 2000. But close. And no. But I also couldn’t afford to go to the theatre.”

“You snuck in?” Aiden bit his lip.

“I was a bad kid, I told you.”

Aiden licked at his lip, and Lambert watched his pink tongue swipe across it. He leaned forward. “You weren’t bad. You were bored. And needed to get out.”

Lambert swallowed. “Well…”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to pretend like it was grand. You did get out. You’re here. With me.”

Lambert sucked in a breath. “With you?”

“Yeah.”

Lambert smiled. “For now.”

“For now? What does that mean?”

“I mean—look at this place. This is like, fuck. And the furniture was so—and all, like, _nicer_. I don’t even…” He took another drink, and then picked up his water glass for a deep drink of it, instead. “I’m just… me.” He winced. _No one likes a pity party, jackass._ “I mean, I—” He didn’t know how to dig himself out. “Your life is… I’m an imposter. I’m just the kid in the leather jacket.”

Aiden leaned forward. “We’re all just the kid in the leather jacket, Lambert. And there’s a name for this—what you’re feeling right now. It’s called imposter syndrome.”

“I don’t have imposter syndrome. That’s a professional issue. I’m really fucking good at my job.”

“Is it?”

“I think so.”

“I don’t. And anyway, what is your job, exactly?”

Lambert scoffed. “What is yours?”

“I’m an intelligence consultant.”

Lambert sat back.

“Was a contractor. Now I’m more of the consultant type. Don’t much like flying off to Tunis in the middle of the night to meet with diplomats and generals anymore. And my parents hated it.”

“They sound nice.”

“They are. Can’t wait to meet you.”

“What? Why?”

Aiden smiled. “Probably looking forward to witnessing your stunning conversation skills.”

“That’s just mean.”

“It’s only mean if you think I’m being disingenuous. Have a little faith in yourself.” He waved to the waiter. “Now pick out your dinner.”

“I was supposed to plan entertainment,” Lambert said afterward.

“And did you?”

“I had a few ideas. They were all terrible.”

“Like what?”

“Movie. Show. Museum—but they aren’t open this late. Harbor cruise.”

“That usually comes with dinner.”

“I told you they were terrible.”

Aiden stopped under a streetlight. His mouth quirked up. “I didn’t say it was a terrible idea. I think they’re all great ideas, actually.”

“How are you real?”

“Me? How are _you_ real?”

Lambert snorted. “I’m… The only reason I’m not basic is because I am, as Eskel and Geralt say, a basket case.”

“Wrong." Aiden stared at him. "You are kind. You’re funny. I think you must have the sharpest mind of anyone I’ve ever met—except maybe my mother. You’re generous, and you help people—”

“Aiden—”

“No, I’m not stopping. You do all these jobs for people, even when it isn’t something for work. You’re saving those kids.”

“You’re the one they’re staying with.”

“Because of you. You were given _a house_ as a _thank you_ gift.”

“I gave her some money for it.”

“And every now and then you mention some Serbian outpost or Syrian village that says a lot more that you think if the right person’s listening.”

_The right person_. Lambert opened his mouth.

“You’re interesting, Lambert. You think things and say things that fascinate me. You have opinions—and I don’t always agree, but most of the time you convince me. And I don’t know if you know this or not but you’re also fucking gorgeous.”

“What?”

“You’re built like a statue, and those t-shirts and the jeans with the paint stains, and—”

Lambert reached for him. His hands met each of Aiden’s cheeks, and he pressed his thumb against his lips, quieting him. “You make me want things,” Lambert whispered.

“You already want things, Lambert. I make you realize you can have them.”

Lambert took a breath, and then he leaned in.

Aiden tasted like limoncello and sugar. His lips fit Lambert’s perfectly. They opened against him, and Lambert let his tongue reach out to explore it. Aiden’s tongue met his, and then retreated. He pulled back, and then returned.

Aiden’s hands found Lambert’s back, beneath his jacket. His fingers dug into Lambert’s flesh, and they both groaned with it. Lambert stepped forward on instinct—closer to Aiden, further into his arms, and Aiden pressed him closer still.

Lambert pushed his fingers back into Aiden’s hair. He twisted them into the tendrils and gripped the back of his neck. He tilted his head and kissed him more fiercely. He let his hand stray down to Aiden’s lower back, and Aiden seemed to sag against him, releasing a moan against his lips.

Lambert swallowed it. “I want to kiss you there,” he said between kisses. It didn’t make sense, but Aiden nodded anyway. “I want to kiss you everywhere.”

“Yeah,” Aiden agreed.

“I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to kiss anyone like this.”

“Then do it.”

“I’m going to fuck this up.”

Aiden kissed him again. “Probably.”

They both laughed.

They didn't stop kissing until a woman walking her dog tsked at them for taking up the whole sidewalk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was NOT supposed to happen yet, but the boys demanded it.
> 
> I'm thankful for each of you. Stay safe, friends.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much happening here, tbh.

Astrid was asleep on the sofa, and the babysitter spoke in a whisper, despite the sound of the TV. Aiden thanked her in a hushed tone and handed her cash. _I should pay next time_ , Lambert thought. _Next time._ His mind fixated on the words like a blinking marquee sign, buzzing with electricity through incandescent bulbs. _Next time_. He let the babysitter pass and listened to the door click shut.

Skjall yawned. It felt later than it was—the darkness of the night seemed to penetrate the room. “How long has she been asleep?” Aiden asked him, voice low.

Skjall shrugged. “Last episode.” He clicked out of the show and set down the remote.

Aiden nodded. “I’ll take her up,” he said. He started to scoop her up, bending his knees.

“Wait,” Lambert said. _Your back._ “Don’t—I’ll… I’ll get her.” He stepped around him and picked Astrid up like a doll. She was warm and messy, and already wearing soft, flannel pajamas. He adjusted her in his arms, and she nuzzled against his chest, mumbling. Her hair clung to his shirt, becoming even messier. Aiden nodded and led them upstairs.

Astrid’s room wasn’t designed for her, Lambert knew. It was a cozy guest room, set up for an adult, but Astrid’s presence had already impacted the place. A star-shaped nightlight lit the path to the bed, which was haphazardly made up with pale linens. It was too big for her, but her stack of books on the nightstand fit perfectly. Aiden pulled back the fluffy comforter and Lambert laid her on the bed with as little jostling as possible. She instinctively clutched at a stuffed alligator. _Or crocodile_ , Lambert amended. He watched Aiden draw up the covers and tuck them around her, and she turned onto her side, creating more of a burrito. Aiden hummed in amusement. Lambert could see his upturned lips in the glow of the nightlight. He watched him reach down and delicately smooth the hair back from her face. The gesture was small, almost an afterthought, and Lambert felt like he couldn’t breathe.

Skjall lingered in the hallway as Aiden closed her door behind them. “Are you going to bed already?” Aiden asked.

He nodded. “I’m going to finish my book first.”

Lambert watched him shift from foot to foot. After a moment, Skjall looked him in the eye. “If you wanted to stay over, it would be okay,” he said.

“What?” Lambert looked at Aiden, who seemed momentarily speechless.

“I said—”

“No, no, I heard you. I, uh… I just—”

“Just wanted to say,” Skjall said.

“Okay,” Lambert said. He opened his mouth, but no more words wanted to come out.

Skjall looked back and forth between them. “Me and Astrid… I’m sorry we’re…” He chewed his lip.

Aiden frowned. “Sorry you’re what?”

Skjall scratched his elbow. “We’ve been here a long time.”

His words twisted something deep in Lambert’s chest, filling him with something like nausea. He reached forward and took hold of Skjall’s shoulders. “You don’t _ever_ have to feel sorry. Ever. You don’t need to because you are…” he looked around the hall, unsure how to finish. _You are wanted. You are enough. You are loved_. “Even if you couldn’t stay here, you could stay next door, with me.” As he said it, he realized it was absolutely true, and that he would happily turn the guest rooms into a room for each of them.

He realized the only thing disappointing about the mental image was its lack of Aiden. Aiden took a deep breath. “Do you not want to be here?” he asked.

Skjall’s chin quivered for a moment, and then stopped. “No, I do.” He looked at Lambert again. “Is that bad?”

“No,” Lambert answered. “There are things you’re gonna… experience in life that are bad and good. People doing things. Bad things and good things.” He knelt down. Skjall was taller than Astrid, but the position still brought Lambert closer to his face as he looked him in the eye. “Taking care of yourself and taking care of your family—your sister—that’s never bad.”

“My father is family, too.”

“If you want him to be, okay, then he is.” Lambert sniffed. “But one thing I know, one thing I learned hard, is that family means a lot more than who made you.”

Skjall looked at him. Finally, he nodded. He stepped forward and extended his hand, offering a handshake. Lambert accepted it.

In the kitchen, Aiden put ice in a pair of glasses. He poured them each a finger of whiskey and returned the bottle to the cabinet. When he handed a glass to Lambert, their fingers touched.

Lambert set the whiskey down without drinking. He watched Aiden’s lips meet the rim of his glass. He watched him swallow the amber liquid. When his hands found Aiden’s hips, he pressed him back against the counter. Aiden’s arms went wide, and his body arched as Lambert slotted their legs together. His chest heaved with his breath, and Lambert tried to form a coherent thought. They rushed past him, through his mind, elusive and overlapping, like a jumbled pile of building blocks. Lambert felt that if he could only pick them apart, he could stack them and build something substantial. He wanted to express it—the signification of it. He pushed his hips forward, into Aiden’s. “My kitchen is nicer than yours,” he whispered.

Aiden laughed with a quiet exhaled breath, and Lambert pressed his lips to the dimple in his right cheek.

Aiden’s hand gripped Lambert’s shoulder, and Lambert let his mouth shift lower. He kissed along his jawline, and tasted the dip beneath his ear. Aiden shivered beneath his hands, and he gripped him tighter, so Lambert mouthed along his neck, pressing him more firmly against the counter.

Aiden’s breath hitched. His body relaxed beneath Lambert’s hands, and his other hand found Lambert’s back. Lambert’s mouth traced the column of his throat. His skin tasted clean, with a hint of salt, and then Aiden’s palm slipped down from his shoulder and gripped the edge of his shirt. “Lam…” His fingers found Lambert’s skin.

Kissing Aiden felt more right with each passing moment. His lips were plump, still slightly puffy from their time outside. When Lambert’s tongue met Aiden’s, it felt like the first time all over again. He explored. His body relaxed into it, and the desire in his gut bloomed like a spring flower.

Aiden’s fingers splayed against his back, and then shifted down to his shirt hem. As his hands met more and more of Lambert’s skin, they sped, scrabbling at it, plucking button after button from their holes. When he split the lapels apart, he pulled back. Lambert’s chest rose and fell with each inhalation, and he felt Aiden’s eyes on his skin like heat. “Fuck,” Aiden breathed.

Lambert’s body sparked. He felt his nipples harden as the fabric slid across them and they were bared to Aiden’s gaze. He could see Aiden’s eyes, dark and intentional, track down from his throat to his chest, over his abdomen, and then lower. His jeans were too tight. He pressed his hardness against Aiden’s hip. Aiden pressed back. “We should—the kids—I don’t—”

Aiden nodded. “Yeah.” He intertwined their fingers. They left the glasses on the counter, and Lambert followed Aiden up the stairs. _This is happening_ , he told himself. _Let it happen. Fucking Christ what is happening? Don’t be terrible. My god how is this happening? He’s so…_ He stared at the line of Aiden’s shoulders.

The house was quiet. The lights were off in the kids’ rooms, and the furnace kicked on with a low hum. They passed the rooms, the hall bath, and Aiden’s office. In the master suite, Aiden switched on a lamp, and then locked the door behind them. Lambert heard Eskel’s voice in his head: _Don’t psych yourself out. Just relax and let it happen._

Aiden played music, the volume low, and Lambert tried to keep up. He opened Aiden’s shirt and felt like he was falling. His skin looked gold, flushed in the lamplight. Lambert let himself explore the planes of his chest. He let himself be lost in the beat of the music and the push and pull of Aiden’s hands. When Aiden’s tongue traced down from his navel, he bit the back of his hand to keep himself quiet. Aiden unbuttoned his jeans. He kissed his stomach, and then pulled the denim from his body.

“Do you realize how stunning you are?” Aiden asked. He slid his fingers along the cotton of Lambert’s boxer briefs until his thumbs bracketed his erection. “And this…” He licked along the waistband, and as Lambert groaned, he nuzzled against him, and then mouthed at it.

“ _Aiden_ …” Lambert whispered.

“Yes.” Aiden dug his fingers into Lambert’s groin, and the shifting cotton moved his body, making him shake.

“ _Fuck._ ”

“ _Shh_ —don’t wake the kids.”

“Shit. You don’t think—”

“No, no, calm down,” Aiden stroked his side. “I’m teasing. Skjall’s reading in his blanket fort on the other side of the house, and Astrid’s been asleep over an hour. Plus they both have white noise machines in their rooms, and they’ve been using them every night.”

Lambert felt his heart slow. “Okay.”

“Now,” Aiden said, “where was I?” Lambert gasped as Aiden hand dragged across him. “That’s right…”

Lambert looked down and watched Aiden brush his mouth across him. His body ached, and a spot darkened in the cotton. He groaned, and then reached for him. Aiden let himself be moved, and Lambert pushed him back against the pillows. He tugged at his clothes, not stopping until he had him almost bare. He paused, and then, achingly slowly, pulled down his waistband

Lambert didn’t realize he was holding his breath until he dropped Aiden’s clothes on the floor and turned to take him in. He was beautiful, of course, but the truly breathtaking piece was the way his eyes met and held Lambert’s. They _saw_ him. They told him he was going to be okay.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Lambert whispered. He tasted Aiden’s thigh. The hair tickled his skin.

“That’s okay,” said Aiden.

Lambert took him in his mouth. At first, he tried to take too much, and he had to pull back, gasping. Aiden ran his fingers through his hair. His breath was labored and heavy, and when Lambert licked along the length of him, he groaned. He fisted the bedding, and Lambert had to squeeze himself. He was almost unbearably hard, throbbing with need, and every gasp and moan sent another wave of desire running through him.

It had been a long, long time since Lambert had been with anyone, and even then, he was far from what his brothers would call experienced—not that he’d ever admit it to them. _None of their fucking business._ “Hey.”

Lambert looked up and found Aiden watching him. “Hm?”

“Stay with me.” He pulled Lambert up toward him. “Okay?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, just relax.” He kissed him again, and Lambert let the dynamic shift. Aiden turned them, so that Lambert was pressed against the pillows instead. His mouth was hot on Lambert’s chest, and he licked his nipple. “I’ve wanted to do this,” he sucked on it, “for a long time.” He rolled the other beneath his thumb, and then his tongue found that one, too. “Since you opened your door in nothing but jeans that morning…” He sucked kisses down his stomach. “You and your work clothes.” His tongue traced the junction of Lambert’s hip. “Being so good at everything.” His face drew nearer, and his hands stroked Lambert like he was taming an animal. “I’m going to make you feel so good.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Lambert groaned. He throbbed.

Aiden sucked on his inner thigh, and then, _finally_ , he palmed Lambert’s cock. Lambert arched his back, thrusting up against his hand. Aiden rubbed his face against him, and then licked him, root to tip. He gripped him at the base, and flitted his tongue against him. He sucked him into his mouth, and Lambert plunged one hand into his hair and covered his mouth with the other. Everything else seemed to retreat, and Lambert could only hold on and feel him, an endless onslaught of hot, wet, passion that made him shake even harder.

“I won’t— _fuck_ —I’m not going to last, Aiden, I—”

“S’fine,” Aiden gasped, mouth red and warm and slick with spit and fluids. He stroked one hand of Lambert’s chest, and let his other hand drift down to cup him and tease.

“Oh god…”

“We can go slower next time,” Aiden said, and his voice was a low growl. He took him again, even deeper, and Lambert couldn’t hold on. _Next time_ , he thought. _Next time…_ He lost himself, drifting free with the flood, and when he pushed at Aiden to warn him, Aiden just took his hand and held it, squeezing it as he came undone. Aiden twisted their fingers together and pulled off of him, surging up for another kiss as he pumped his own cock and brought himself over the edge after him. He came on Lambert’s hip and stomach, and then caressed his cheek with his free hand, pressing their foreheads together. He caught his breath, and then collapsed beside him.

Lambert wanted to form words. _Tell him it felt good. Tell him thanks. Don’t say thank you, that would be stupid. But I’m thankful. Oh my god he wants to do it again. Maybe we can…_

“You okay?” Aiden asked. “You look…”

“That was… I’m good.”

Aiden smiled. Only one dimple, this time, but with soft eyes. “You should know that seeing you take care of those kids in the single sexiest thing I’ve seen in my life, and you need to warn me next time you’re going to go from nervous teenager to hot dad like that.”

Lambert swallowed. He laughed with a breathy huff. “I thought you liked the construction worker look best.”

Aiden’s cheeks flushed. He leaned close. “Construction worker-mechanic-bookworm-hot dad-super soldier? How’d I get lucky enough to find you in my bed?”

Lambert lifted an eyebrow. “You lucky?” He scoffed. “I’m a mess.”

Aiden reached over him and pulled a tissue off the nightstand, and then wiped them clean. “Not anymore,” he said. He pulled a blanket over them. “Are… do you…” He licked his lips. “Do you want to stay here tonight?”

Lambert breathed. He nodded.

Aiden grinned. “Good.” He kissed him, and then switched off the lamp. Then he turned it back on. “I want to see you,” he said.

Lambert wrapped his arms around him and pressed his face to his chest. He was warm and solid and strong beside him. He smelled like skin and soap. “Perfect,” he murmured against his skin. He closed his eyes. The music played on, quiet and low. Somewhere, in the distance, a dog barked.

Lambert let himself relax.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Always practice safe sex, friends, even oral.
> 
> So, part of my goal for this story is to really transform the character and show how he grows as he lets his guard down. I hope that came across here... 
> 
> OH, as I proof this, I want to clarify--my intention here is that Skjall is too young to really know what the implications are of an adult sleepover. He's a child who acts older than he is, but don't get the wrong idea there. He just knows that grown-ups in relationships live together sometimes. I hope that makes sense.
> 
> Also, sorry for anyone who didn't think adults ever fool around when kids are in the house.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of action this time around, and not the fun kind...

The phone rang late, and Aiden handed it to him. “Esk?” He heard an engine in the background, and he sat up, immediately awake. “What’s going on?”

“The security I was doing ended up… well.”

“Are you okay?” Lambert slid out of the bed. He was stark naked in the lamplight.

“We’re okay.”

“We? The actress—”

“Barista.”

“Right, sorry.”

“S’fine. I got her out. We’re headed to the lake house to lie low.”

“On your bike?”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck, man, I knew you shoulda got the Transit. Sorry.”

“No, this is fine. I was able to get in and out quickly… But, uh, I wanted to let you all know. Tried to call Geralt too, but he didn’t answer. Probably with his new boyfriend.”

Lambert coughed. “Uh…”

“Well then. I take it the date went well?” Lambert just scratched the back of his neck. He sat back down on the edge of the bed, and immediately felt Aiden’s hands slide up his back to his shoulders.

“Yeah,” he sighed. “Went well.”

“Good. Tell him I said hey.”

“What do you need me to do? Any clean-up?”

“Already called Sigi.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Well, I thought, who do we know who can take care of that, and…”

“It’s Sigi, yeah.”

“Plus I didn’t want your date to turn into hiding a body.”

“I mean, I was supposed to come up with the entertainment.”

“Two bodies, actually.”

“Fuck. And you’re okay?”

“I was grazed, but just a little. Anyway, two things I need you to do.”

“’Kay.”

“Help Ger with the video shoot today. He’ll need security. Actually, maybe take Coën with you. He needs the experience and you guys could use more eyes.”

“Can do. What else?”

“Just… Be careful.”

“Hey, you too. And take care of your girl.”

“She’s not—”

“Uh-huh, yeah yeah. Just remember there’s clean sheets and blankets under the stairs, and you’re going to need to change them because they’re gonna be dusty as hell, and check the tub for spiders before you have her shower. Oh, and the good wine is in the small cabinet over the refrigerator, but the good liquor is in the freezer _behind_ the bag of ice.”

“Since when do you care about things like the good wine and clean sheets?”

“Don’t be an asshole.”

“Is this all a result of Aiden?”

“No, jackass, it’s a result of being too old to sleep in dirty sheets and drink cheap booze. You can thank me later.”

On Monday, Lambert went to get a massage. “I need to see if it’s, you know, one of _those_ places.”

“What places?” asked Skjall. He was eating a waffle covered with bananas and strawberries and drizzled with syrup.

“Well kid, sometimes people kidnap… usually women—young women—”

“Like me?” asked Astrid.

“No, older than you. Christ, at least I hope older—and they better fu—freaking not unless they want to feel real pain. Which, I mean they will anyway because kidnapping is—”

“Are you sure this is the right conversation for breakfast?” Aiden asked.

“I’m not going to—okay, so sometimes people are kidnapped and made to work certain jobs they don’t like. It’s like slavery, but a newer version. You know about slavery, right?”

Skjall and Astrid nodded.

“So it’s important to know this shit still happens, right, and if you ever think it’s happening to someone you gotta help them. Or like, buy ethically sourced cotton and shrimp and stuff.”

Aiden squinted at him. "True."

“So you’re going to help them at the… massage store?” Skjall asked.

“I’m going to see if they want to work there or if they’re being made to, so I can help them if they’re being made to.”

“I want to help people like that when I grow up,” said Astrid. She had a milk mustache, and Aiden passed her a paper towel, which she used to wipe syrup from her fingers instead of her face.

“Maybe a little bit different than that,” Lambert said.

“No,” she argued, “the same way.” She took a massive bite of waffle. "And with a gun."

"No, not with a gun," Lambert argued.

"A ray-gun!" she argued back.

Aiden sipped his coffee. “Okay, you guys have about ten minutes before it’s time to head to the bus stop.”

“Can we ride bikes today instead?” asked Skjall.

“Do you both want to?” Aiden looked at Astrid, and she nodded. “Well, I don’t see why not. Straight there and straight home after. I mean here.” Lambert could see him swallow.

The massage was weird. Lambert gave a fake name and contact information. He paid cash. The massage therapist was young and attractive. She didn’t make any offers, and he didn’t want to ask because he didn’t want to offend her and, quite frankly, he didn’t want to get a hand job at a massage parlor.

Afterward, he drove straight to the warehouse set. Coën arrived just after him, followed by Geralt and Jaskier. They discussed the massage parlor, and Jaskier told him the massage therapist _had_ , in fact, asked if he wanted a hand job. She just used a euphemism, and he, not being one to frequent massage parlors, had not understood. “Well, at least the question was answered,” he said.

The film crew had an absurd amount of extras, and Lambert struggled to keep his mouth shut about it, as Geralt clearly wasn’t thinking rationally. Every time he looked at Jaskier or went into the warehouse where Jaskier was filming, he went quiet and still. His face softened. _I’ll be damned_ , Lambert thought. “He’s in love,” he murmured. He wondered if Geralt realized it. He watched the tension build throughout the evening until Geralt was literally sweating as he packed people into their cars.

To be honest, Lambert wasn’t complaining about the quick wrap. He missed dinner, so he grabbed a hoagie on the way home. Then he stood on the sidewalk outside his house, staring at Aiden’s door. As he pulled out his keys, his phone vibrated. _Are you going to stay out there all night, or are you going to come inside?_

 _Inside your house?_ he texted back.

_Yes._

Lambert sighed. He tried to calm the thrilling twist in his stomach, but Aiden met him just inside the door and kissed him. Lambert wondered how people who lived with this at home ever left the house.

Aiden’s skin was warm and smooth. His mouth tasted like the hot chocolate he made the kids before bed. “I’ve been thinking about what you said,” Aiden whispered between kisses.

“What did I say?” Lambert nibbled along his collarbone.

Aiden raked his fingers through Lambert’s hair. “About your house being nicer.”

“Oh.” Aiden’s nipples were pebbled hard, and Lambert flitted his tongue against one of them. His hands drifted down his back.

“I think you’re right. _Oh, god_.” He gasped and pulled Lambert back up for a kiss. “Just wanted to say.”

“’Kay.” _Move in with me. Let’s live together. Let’s set up rooms for the kids. Can we keep them? What do we need to do to—_ Aiden’s ass fit his hands perfectly, and the sounds he made sent Lambert’s thoughts spinning in a different direction.

The phone rang late again—or maybe early. Aiden mumbled and handed it to Lambert, who blinked his bleary, burning eyes. _Damn contacts_. He squinted. _Unknown number_. _Definitely one of the guys._ “Probably someone calling for a designated driver,” he whispered to Aiden. He tapped to answer. “This better be good,” he grumbled.

Geralt’s voice came through the line. “Jaskier and I have been abducted. I think we’re in Radovid’s townhouse.”

Lambert scrambled and sat up. “Fuck! Are you okay?”

“No. Not sure how I’m going to get out of this without…” Geralt trailed off, and Lambert jumped out of the bed. “Right. Get Roche… and Sigi.”

“Dijkstra?” Lambert held the phone with his shoulder and slid into his jeans. Across from him, Aiden had done the same. His face was passive and calm.

“He doesn’t go by that name anymore, remember?”

“Shit, right. Reuven. I’ll head straight there.”

“Not by yourself. Get Coën.”

Lambert struggled to focus his thoughts. _He’s not ready for this yet._ “You know he isn’t good at this sort of thing. He’s an intelligence guy.”

“We need somebody.”

Lambert looked up. “I, uh, I know someone.”

“Who?”

“My neighbor. His name’s Aiden.” Aiden’s little crooked smile appeared. Then it broke into a grin and he pulled on a shirt.

“You’re going to bring your _neighbor_ on a rescue mission? You know what, fine. This is taking too long. Just, make sure you get Roche.” Aiden tossed him a shoe and Lambert fumbled it and dropped it. “I got a bad feeling…” Geralt hummed.

“This your phone?”

“I’ll keep it on me.”

“Be there soon, bro. As long as it takes me to get over the river.” He was pretty sure Geralt had already ended the call. He pocketed his phone. “Uhh… So, you know how I work in security?”

Aiden snorted. “I do.”

“And you know Geralt was securing that adult film set, and he has a thing now with an actor, right, and they’ve been, uh, abducted by his ex—”

“The actor’s ex or Geralt’s?”

“Jaskier, the actor. Though, I mean, that isn’t his real name. It’s Julian Pankratz, and he’s also an adjunct professor at the Academy—I don’t think he’s told Geralt any of that, though, I just, earlier, you know…”

“Wanted to check into your brother’s new boyfriend?”

“I mean…”

Aiden leaned in and kissed him. It was too brief. “I would’ve done the same thing.”

“Oh, fuck!”

“What?”

“The kids!”

Aiden looked at the clock. “How long do you think it’ll take?” He pulled a notepad from his nightstand.

“I hope not more than a couple of hours, but who knows?”

“I’ll leave the kids a note, in case it takes longer. And I’ll drive so you can make those phone calls.”

“He thinks they’re at Radovid’s townhouse. Radovid’s this guy who owns a rival adult film studio.”

“I’ve heard the name. Grab the backpack under the bed. I’ll put notes on the table and the fridge. That’s the first place Skjall will go when he wakes up.” He paused at the foot of the stairs. “Is this going to be a normal thing, you think? Do I need to start sleeping with a gun under my pillow?”

 _Not normal to wake up this way, but normal to fall asleep together,_ Lambert thought. “I mean, the nightstand will probably work.”

Radovid’s townhouse loomed in the dark street like an amusement park house of horrors. An iron gate blocked the lower entrance, and cameras seemed to cover every sight line. Aiden sniffed. “Plan?” he asked. His voice, like before, was perfectly calm. _I want to live together_ , Lambert thought.

He looked up at the townhouse. The neighboring buildings didn’t have conveniently located roofs. “Well, I guess taking out the cameras isn’t exactly feasible.”

“I’ll bet this building has a fire escape.”

“You think getting in here could just be as easy as climbing up the fire escape?”

Aiden shrugged. “It’s worth a shot.”

“What about the cameras?”

“Look like you know what you’re doing.”

“I always look like I know what I’m doing.” Lambert grinned. _Move in with me._ “Gotta fake it ‘til you make it, right?”

Aiden smiled and followed him to the side of the building. They were halfway up when Lambert’s phone rang with a call from Roche. “Are you on the fire escape?” Roche asked.

“Yes…” Lambert whispered. “You’re here?”

“My team almost just took you out. What the hell are you doing?”

“You gotta ask?”

Roche sighed. “No. Just, be careful. I’m going in the front, and if it gets messy…”

“I’m getting Geralt and getting out.”

“And your friend?”

“Uh…” Lambert looked at Aiden, who was testing a window. “He’s cool.”

“He’s _cool_?”

“Yeah.”

“Jesus Christ you guys are going to drive me to an early retirement.”

“You hardly even hear from us.”

“Just don’t shoot anyone, okay?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Lambert ended the call. He called the phone Geralt had called from earlier, but there was no answer.

“I hope he wasn’t hiding somewhere and just gave up his position with that ring,” Aiden said.

“Nah, just wait ‘til you meet him. Geralt’s—now don’t tell him I said this—he’s actually probably the best of us.”

Aiden’s eyes swept up and down Lambert’s body. “Oh I doubt that.” He licked his lips.

“You… Fuck.” Lambert felt himself start to respond with a slow arousal. _Please move in with me. I don’t want to sleep without you._ “You’re going to…”

Aiden grinned and climbed the next flight of stairs ahead of him. He pushed on the window at the landing, and it slid open. “Huh.”

“Wow.”

Aiden shrugged. “I guess they think no one would dare?”

“Or we’re about to be shot by a security guard.”

“I don’t see anyone.” The bedroom the window opened to was empty. Aiden shrugged again and climbed inside. Lambert pulled out his pistol and climbed in after him.

The townhouse was surprisingly quiet, given that a crime was taking place. _Except kidnapping is a quiet crime_ , Lambert thought. _Or does this count as kidnapping? Abduction? Imprisonment? No, it has to be kidnapping_. He opened the door a crack and peered out. The corridor was empty. A light was on in the room across from them, and he heard voices. “I think we found them,” Lambert whispered.

“I’ll go set up some cameras.”

“If you can get different floors…”

“Give me…” Aiden looked down the corridor, assessing. “Seven minutes.”

Lambert nodded and watched him disappear into the darkness.

The voices grew louder, and Lambert crept nearer to the door. “You little slut, who do you think you are? Kneel!”

Lambert heard an answered, “No,” and the unmistakable sound of a fight. He tilted his head to the side, and then kicked the door open.

The scene before Lambert momentarily stopped him in his tracks. Jaskier had Marx held, knife to his throat, facing away from him. He was handcuffed, and his legs were fastened into a spreader bar. Geralt was bound similarly, but sitting in a chair. “Is this why you didn’t answer the goddamn phone?” Lambert asked. Geralt’s eyes were unfocused, and Lambert wondered if he would even remember this later. His shirt was soaked in blood and split down the middle. Lambert realized he had been stabbed. He felt a pure, blinding rage swell in him. He strode across the room and punched Marx in the face.

Jaskier helped him get the man bound, and Aiden helped him carry the son of a bitch out. He tried to not look at Geralt’s bloody side and pale face. Geralt and Jaskier hitched a ride to the hospital with Sigi, and Marx got a ride—presumably to jail—with Roche.

Aiden got Lambert to the car instead of putting Radovid in the hospital, too. They made it back to the house before the kids woke up.

At dawn, once again, Lambert found himself fixing a door. This time, it was Geralt’s, and Lambert frowned, realizing he probably wasn’t going to be able to discuss the house thing with Aiden for at least a few days. “It’s better to wait anyway, you fucking headcase,” he muttered to himself. “It’s way too fucking early to be asking him to move in with you.” _And to be objective about it,_ he _hasn’t actually stayed the night at_ your _house—you’ve just stayed at his. Though my house is nicer, and he agrees. He agrees!_ “Because it is.” _Calm down_. He turned the screwdriver. _Okay, but what would we even do if we have the two houses? Do we sell one? Oh god that’s a fucking commitment. That’s like—shit. Or we could tear down the wall and do like a—why would we do that? The house would have two entryways and two staircases._ “Huge fucking reno job.” _We could rent one out for extra income. Don’t exactly need extra income, but it never hurts. It would be Aiden’s income, jackass._ “Don’t be stupid.” _Eventually we could have a shared—oh god._ “Fix the fucking door, Bert, for fuck’s sake.”

Afterward, Vesemir called. “I need you to make sure this journalist friend of Sigi’s makes it to Geralt safely,” he said.

“You got it, boss.”

“Good. Don’t get distracted.”

“What?”

“You know what, son.”

Lambert sighed. “Fine. I’ll head straight there.”

“Good.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's making the most of winter break? *points to self* This guy.
> 
> Credit: Moonstruck (1987) was written by John Patrick Shanley, and he won Best Screenplay at the Oscars (and Cher won best actress because she's a fucking icon).
> 
> Trigger warning: Near the beginning, this chapter mentions blacking out at a club (a past event). Search from "gonna head out" and read from there to skip; note at end.

Lambert texted Aiden at six to tell him it would be a late night. _Going through pictures with Jaskier to find evidence._

 _I’ll leave the door unlocked_ , Aiden replied.

Lambert felt weightless, even with Geralt in bandages. He felt… abnormally emotional when he watched Geralt and Jaskier together. The sight of Geralt in a hospital bed hadn’t been particularly new—they’d all seen each other in various states of injury—but the stab wound had been, Lambert admitted to himself, frightening. He watched Jaskier curl up against Geralt’s uninjured side and wondered if he wanted children. _Geralt would make a good dad_ , he thought, picturing him with a little girl wrapped around his shoulders. He opened the search app on his phone, typed in “how to adopt,” and hit go. Then he locked the screen and pocketed it. Jaskier told them a colorful story about a party in Ibiza.

Lambert had never been to Ibiza, and had no particular interest in it, or, for that matter, Jaskier’s sensationalist stories. They made him anxious. It reminded him of a party he went to at a disco in the late 2000s, where a man had bought him Jaeger bombs, and he woke up on Vesemir’s living room floor, inexplicably wet, with no memory of how he’d gotten there. Lambert didn’t even like disco. He ground his teeth together and tried to imagine the memory was a viscous blob he could pour into a box and close, and then seal with duct tape. Maybe, if he meditated or something, he could make his brain work like that hallway of doors in the Tom Petty video for “Don’t Come Around Here No More,” and he could lock it in one of the rooms. Then he realized that image may not be from the Tom Petty music video. _Is that just_ Alice in Wonderland _? Or some other music video?_ He unlocked his phone and saw search results about pet adoption. He added “kid” to the keywords and searched again.

“Lambert?”

“Huh?” Lambert looked up and found everyone looking at him.

“You okay?” Geralt asked.

“Fine.”

“Okay…”

“I think I’m gonna head out.”

“You sure you’re good to drive?”

“I’ve only had two beers, asshole.”

“Yeah, that’s a lot for a little guy like you.”

“Fuck you, and I’ve been here four hours.”

“You’ve only had two beers in four hours?”

“I also had some cranberry juice.”

“Where the fuck did you get cranberry juice?”

“Where do you think I got it? In your fucking refrigerator!”

“Who the fuck put cranberry juice in my refrigerator?”

“It’s for cocktails,” said Jaskier.

“Who puts cranberry juice in cocktails?” asked Geralt.

“Lots of people, bro. Goes with vodka,” Lambert replied.

“You don’t like vodka!”

“So?”

“So why are you—”

“I said I was having cranberry juice, not vodka!”

“Since when do you like cranberry juice?!”

“Since now! I can fucking drink cranberry juice all I want and I don’t have to explain it to you!”

Geralt started to argue more, but then he winced and stilled. “Calm down!” Jaskier scolded them.

“I’m very calm,” said Lambert. “And I’m heading out.”

“After that?” Jaskier looked incredulous.

Lambert shrugged. “Yeah.” He picked up his keys and thumped Geralt on the back. “Glad you’re feeling better, asshole.”

“Thanks for fixing the door, dickhead.”

“Love you too.”

Aiden was sleep-mussed and warm when Lambert got to him. He rolled over and curled up around him, and Lambert felt himself uncoil and sink into the mattress. Aiden’s arms tightened, and then relaxed, and his breath evened as Lambert closed his eyes.

Geralt called the next day. “Hey,” he said, “they’re moving the film set to Yennefer and Triss’ villa.”

“Villa? Huh?” _Film set? The porn?_

“They have some nice place out—”

“They aren’t canceling the filming? You were fucking abducted. And stabbed. Remember?” He switched the phone onto speaker so Aiden could hear.

“Hard to forget. But the villa will be easier to lock down, and the performers are coming into town for it, so they don’t want to cancel…”

“That is the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard,” Lambert told him. He sighed. “Do you need backup?”

“I think I’d rather you make sure Bedlam is safe.” _The journalist_ , Lambert mouthed to Aiden. Aiden nodded.

“Sigi sent a few of his people over. We’re just here keeping track of Radovid.”

“We?”

“Uh, yeah. Me and Aiden. Listening in.” He shifted in his seat. _I should not have put the phone on speaker. Why did you do that dumbass?_

“Hmm. Is he trying to get a job or something?”

Lambert turned the phone back off speaker. His face felt hot. Aiden’s dimples appeared. “No... I mean, I don’t think so. He’s just… really helpful.”

“Uh huh.”

“Shut up. Anyway, we can come if you need, you know, extra eyes,” Lambert said. Aiden nodded.

“Honestly,” Geralt said, “it isn’t a terrible idea.”

“No, no,” Lambert argued. “The whole thing is a terrible idea. I don’t know why you’re doing it. Can’t the filming just wait until he’s arrested?”

“Apparently they have to fly people in, do blood tests, coordinate a bunch of stuff, rent props. And it’s gig work, so if it gets canceled, people don’t get paid.” Lambert closed his eyes. _They’re probably young and need the paycheck, too. Fuck._

“Huh. I guess that makes sense. But wouldn’t they get an insurance payout to still pay everyone?”

“I don’t know. Probably. You’re looking for logic and I think it’s misguided.”

Lambert rolled his eyes. He could hear Jaskier in the background, and Geralt murmuring something to him. “Send me the address,” Lambert said. “How many days should we pack for? Is there a pool?”

“Bye Lambert.” Geralt hung up.

“Rude.”

Aiden chuckled. “So what’s going on?”

“You think we can get an overnight sitter?”

“Fatima probably would.”

“Well, I don’t know how long… Oh, shit. Do you _want_ to come along? I’m sorry. I didn’t even ask.” _You fucking idiot, Bert._

Aiden grinned. He gestured to the computer. “I’m starting to feel pretty invested in this. Pretty soon I’m going to start calling people ‘bro.’”

Lambert cringed. “I…”

“I’m teasing.” Aiden set the computer on the coffee table. He stood up. “We can call Fatima, or… maybe someone in your family.”

Lambert made a face. “My family? I haven’t heard from—”

“I mean your real family. Now.”

“Oh.” Lambert swallowed. “ _Oh_. Actually, I _could_ call Vesemir.”

Aiden nodded. “Do you think he’d mind? I mean, my mother would love to watch them, but it would take too long to get a flight.”

“I actually think he’d really enjoy it. You think the kids would be okay with it?”

“If they know he’s like your father, yeah. We should ask them, of course. Do you think he’d be more comfortable with them at your place?”

Lambert chewed on his lip. “Maybe. I was thinking the two front bedrooms would be good for each of them. The one on your side is probably good for Astrid because it’s closer to the master, and then the other for Skjall. There’s a Jack and Jill bathroom, you know.”

“Oh, perfect.”

“Yeah, I mean, they still need the paint updated, but the floors are in good shape. I threw an old area rug in one, but I’d rather—” Lambert stopped. He realized what he’d been saying, and a lump rose in his throat. “Uh… That is… Uh…”

Aiden grabbed his arm and pulled him up. “Come here,” he said.

“I, uh…”

“Come here.” Lambert shuffled close to him, and Aiden put his face close to his ear. “I think that is a fantastic idea,” he said. He leaned back and looked Lambert fully in the face. “I’ve been waiting for you to say something.”

“But…”

“But what?”

“It’s been, like…” _A_ _month?_ He exhaled. “Should we turn in all the transcripts and records about Rience and the pawn and loan shop?”

Aiden sniffed. “Your friend, Sigi.”

“Yeah?”

“He’s, uh, a mutual acquaintance. I don’t work for him, don’t misunderstand me. But I’ve contracted for different groups, and some of the feds I _have_ worked for are, well, sort of allied with him. Sometimes.” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “So, they could probably make pretty quick work of getting the case put together. And I know it’ll take awhile for the trial, but it could get started.”

“I read that family services are all handled by the county, and there are social workers—”

“We should…” Aiden held a hand up. “Let’s—we’ll ask the kids if they’re comfortable with it after school.”

“I’ll go ahead and call Ves to see if he’s, uh, available. Interested.” He sucked in a very deep breath and heaved it back out.

“You think he’ll be surprised?”

Lambert unlocked his phone. “Actually, no, I really don’t.”

Astrid stood in the middle of the front left bedroom with her hands on her hips. “This room isn’t finished,” she said. “It isn’t as fancy as the rest of the house.”

“The house isn’t fancy,” Lambert argued. “It’s just… renovated.”

“Not in here it isn’t.”

“Well that’s because this isn’t my room, and I’m the one who renovated the rest of the house.”

“Nu-uh.”

“What do you mean _nu-uh_? Uh-huh.”

“Nu-uh! Aiden renorated the house, too.”

“Reno _va_ ted.”

“Re-no-va-ted.”

“Right. Good.”

“Aiden renodated with you.”

Lambert sighed. “Okay, that’s true, he did.” The thought made him pause.

“You smile a lot more than you used to do,” said Astrid.

“Did I frown a lot before?”

“Mmm hmm. I like it better now.”

“Me too, kid. Me too.”

“You should paint it yellow.”

“You think?”

She nodded.

“Well, we’ll have to make sure Aiden agrees, won’t we?”

“Okay, I’ll tell him.”

“You mean ask him?”

“No, I’ll tell him.”

Lambert grinned. “Alright.” He followed her to the other bedroom, where Skjall had already made himself comfortable.

“This room isn’t fancy, either,” Astrid observed.

“It’s a fine room, Astrid,” said Skjall.

“Did you pick your paint color yet?”

“Huh?”

“Astrid wants to paint her room yellow,” Lambert explained.

“It isn’t your room, Astrid.” Skjall looked up at Lambert. “Is it?”

Lambert shrugged. “Do you two want it to be?”

Skjall’s eyes widened. He looked at Astrid and then back at Lambert. He chewed on his lip, and then nodded.

“Well, we’re going to need to talk about it some more, and there’s some things that still have to be figured out with your dad.”

“I don’t want him to hurt Skjall,” said Astrid.

“Hey. Me and Aiden aren’t gonna ever let that happen again, okay?”

“Is that why you smile so much more?” she asked.

Lambert chuckled. “Yeah, something like that.”

Skjall tilted his chin up and frowned, and Lambert sent him a questioning look. Skjall pursed his lips. “Can we do purple?”

“Purple?” Lambert lifted his eyebrows. “Sure. I didn’t know you like purple that much.”

“Like LeBron.”

“ _Oh_. Okay, yeah. We can do it all LeBron and basketball stuff. Do you, uh, do you want to start playing, too?”

“Me?”

“Yeah. I mean, there’s enough room out back to put up a goal. And I think they have lessons at the Y. Or like, a league or something.”

“Can I go?” asked Astrid.

“Of course.”

“Mikayla goes to the Y and she said there’s a pool and they give her applesauce on Wednesdays,” she said.

“Probably. Why? Do you want to take swimming lessons, too?”

Both of the kids’ eyes opened so wide, Lambert briefly worried they would pop out. “Yes,” said Skjall.

“Okay. But if you want applesauce, you can just ask us. We can get you applesauce.”

“I want applesauce,” said Astrid.

“Can we get the cinnamon kind?” asked Skjall.

“Sure. I’ll, uh, I’ll pick some up next time I’m at the store, okay?” They nodded. “So, you ready to meet Vesemir?” They nodded again.

Skjall chewed on his lip again. “He’s your father?”

“Not my biological father. My biological father was… a lot like yours.” Lambert swallowed. “And after I was done with school, I moved away. He’s dead now.” He sniffed. “Ves is the person who taught me... how to be a man.”

“I want to be a man,” said Astrid.

“Well, okay, if you want,” said Lambert. “I guess what I really mean is adult, though. He taught me how to be a grown-up person.”

Skjall nodded.

Vesemir was chewing Big Red and pulling a hard-shell suitcase. “I finally get an invitation when you need something, eh?”

“Thanks.” Lambert held the door for him. “Uh, this is Aiden. Aiden, this is Vesemir.”

Vesemir gave him an intense onceover. “I see.” He set down his suitcase. “You’re one of Iorveth’s, aren’t you?”

Aiden’s mouth fell open. He swallowed. “I was. I’m an independent contractor now.”

“ _Ooh_ ,” said Lambert. “That makes sense.”

“What makes sense?” asked Astrid from the stairs.

“Just work stuff. Astrid, Skjall, this is Vesemir. Ves, that’s Astrid and Skjall. There’s groceries in the fridge and the remotes are there by the sofa, and the kids catch the bus before—”

“You think I’ve never got anybody to school in the morning before, son?”

“Well, no, but—”

“No buts. Geralt needs you two to secure the site. He’s been injured, so don’t let anything happen to him, and don’t let him overexert himself. And don’t get hurt yourselves, you got it?”

“Yes sir,” said Aiden.

“Good. Now. How much homework does everyone have, and afterward, are we making chocolate chip or sugar cookies?”

When Aiden and Lambert arrived at the villa, someone was being fucked in the living room. They didn’t look, but they could hear it from the entryway. It was loud, but didn’t last very long. The filmmaker, Yennefer, showed them to a room. She didn’t ask if they wanted to share. She seemed like a woman who made decisions for people, and Lambert decided the smartest thing to do would be to go along with it.

They went to the villa’s media room, rather than the recently-vacated living room, to wait for Geralt and Jaskier. They pulled up the footage from Radovid’s townhouse, and hooked into the security cameras from the vila. Lambert’s arm kept brushing against Aiden’s. He felt like a teenager.

When Jaskier was cleaned up, he flounced into the media room and picked out a movie, which shouldn’t have been terrible because it had Nic Cage.

Lambert couldn’t decide if it was terrible or not. It also had Cher in it, and she was a better actor than he had expected, which made him feel like a jackass because it was probably rude to assume that just because someone sang, they couldn’t act. _Julie Andrews can sing and act. And Wolverine. What’s his name? Fucking Australian Jean Val—Hugh Jackman!_ He smiled to himself. _Didn’t even have to google it._ Geralt kept leaning close to Aiden to see the camera footage, and Lambert wanted to yell at him. _He’s gonna pull a stitch and everyone is gonna blame me for not making him sit still._

In the movie, Nic Cage told Cher that he loved her. He said, _“Love don’t make things nice. It ruins everything. It breaks your heart. It makes things a mess. We aren’t here to make things perfect. Snowflakes are perfect. Stars are perfect. Not us. Not us. We are here to ruin ourselves, and to break our hearts, and love the wrong people and die. I mean, the storybooks are bullshit. Now I want you to come upstairs with me and get in my bed.”_ And it was a stupid movie, but it felt like the words were coming out of the speakers like spiderwebs and embedding themselves in his lungs, which was frankly a terrible image, but it made him squeeze his eyes closed and feel the warmth of Aiden’s arm against his, and he turned, in the half-dark room, and opened them, and found Aiden was looking at him, too.

Lambert didn’t look away. He thought, _I’m going to make love to you_. He had been wondering when they would. He didn’t know how it would happen, what the logistics would be, or how he could possibly be ready. He realized, now, that he was. He was ready, no matter how it went down, and he would trust Aiden no matter what. And, he realized, Aiden would trust him. It made his throat ache.

The movie ended, and Geralt and Jaskier talked, and Lambert followed along, somehow, but all he could think was, _I want you to come upstairs with me and get in my bed_.

And then Coën called, and Geralt looked at him, and Lambert braced himself. It was time to go to work.

He thought, _If I get shot tonight and die, I am going to be so pissed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning note: Lambert gets anxious listening to Jaskier talk about wild parties he went to with Marx and Radovid. Lambert is reminded of an event from his own past, which is loosely based on a time I got drugged at a disco-themed nightclub in undergrad. I was not assaulted because I was with friends, but I still have an enormous amount of anxiety and trauma and complicated shame/guilt about it, so I kind of unloaded that onto poor Lambert (this is why, if you read my stories, substance use and sex are handled in probably a kind of specific way).
> 
> ANYWAY.....  
> Given that we haven't had a real sex scene yet, I think this is probably going to be 18, not 17, chapters. We shall see! (you know how I love a good smut scene; we can't let Geralt and Jask have all the fun).
> 
> Also, I love LOVE writing these scenes from Lambert's POV, and I'm so delighted to read that some of you are enjoying that, too. I was originally planning a little Eskel/Essi short story, and I think that will still happen. I also responded to a Merthur prompt on Tumblr and am doing a 5-6 chapter story for that, but I did want to comment that you can please also feel free to send me prompts (they can be anonymous, if you like) if you ever have a request. I'm @agentlewomanandascholar over there, and while I am sometimes slow, I really, really enjoy having projects.
> 
> HAPPY NEW YEAR, FRIENDS! Lots of love! You, reading this, are a wonder.  
> Right now, I have 26-ish hours remaining in 2020. *excited sounds*


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extended the count to 18, so this isn't the last one! :-)  
> This is more of the final events of "someone to watch over me" from Lambert's POV.
> 
> And to everyone who likes spending time in Lambert's head, this chapter is for you.  
> To anyone who doesn't... you may want to skim this one.

Before leaving the villa, Aiden, Geralt, and Jaskier followed Lambert to the Transit van. He opened the back and started distributing equipment.

“You just keep all of this with you, all the time?” Jaskier asked. His eyes were too bright; he was clearly delighted by how the evening was turning out.

Lambert scowled.He watched Geralt gingerly pull on a ballistic vest and thought of all the ways the evening could go very, very wrong. “Not that anyone else seems to give two fucks, but someone’s gotta actually keep track of this shit. It ain’t gonna just appear like a rabbit from a fucking hat when someone pulls a gun on you.”

Geralt grunted. “Lambert’s just pissed he always ends up changing the oil in the van, but he’s the only one who uses it.”

“I am not.”

“ _And_ he changes it every other month, so no one else even has a chance.”

“I do not change the oil every other month. It has a maintenance schedule, fucker. If you don’t follow it, it voids the warranty.”

“What warranty?” Geralt asked. “It’s ten years old.”

“It’s the principle of it! We live in a throwaway society that—”

Aiden placed his hand on Lambert’s lower back, and he took a breath. Geralt had already walked away. “Thank you for having gear for me,” Aiden murmured in his ear.

Lambert turned and stared at him. His chest felt tight. “You—you’re welcome,” he managed. Aiden climbed in the back of the van, and Lambert closed everything up and took the driver’s seat.

_You gotta make him feel this way, too_ , he told himself. _He likes me, but this is more than liking. He said he was waiting to bring up the kids moving over. That means him too, right? Of course that means him too, I can’t just misunderstand that; it's totally clear. You sure as shit can, fucker, you misunderstand everything all the time. But that was pretty straightforward. That was clear, and then the kids were talking about it in the open. I wonder if I just said things like that when I was a kid. Astrid didn’t speak up like that at first. That’s been a pretty quick period for her to slip out of the shell like that, really. They always say kids are resilient and they bounce back. Did I bounce back? I wasn’t a kid. I made it through the Naval Academy without saying anything I meant. I said a lot I meant, really, though. But not the same way. That’s not the same thing. “You have a chip on your shoulder the size of a blue whale.” That’s what Ves said. The first time he called me son was that morning in Juba when those women at the market—_ “Don’t miss the turn,” Geralt grumbled. Lambert flipped on the turn signal.

_I wonder how things are in the Sudan—South Sudan—these days._ For a moment he stared at the road ahead of the van, not thinking clear thoughts as much as remembering that bone-deep feeling of knowing there was nothing he, himself, would be able to do that could possibly be enough to help the number of people he wanted to help or who needed it. Then he remembered that process of realizing the world was so much bigger than he had known, and that even helping one group of people wouldn’t make a dent in the vastness of suffering in the world, which was present in places he deployed, but was also present here, at home—and back where he was from—and he remembered how his high school had done a special recognition for everyone who signed up to join the military after graduation, but hadn’t done a goddamn thing for people who would be social workers or aid workers, and how Red Crescent and Red Cross workers probably never got standing ovations at high school graduations. _There are people in the Sudan who aren't suffering, too. I should just say, "I've been thinking about the future." That's what they do in shows, right? No, I can offer for him to try my bed because it's better for his back. Do I wait until the next time he has a bad pain day? He won't say anything, but he'll do that thing with his leg._

He remembered Vesemir had a case with a social worker a couple of years before. _The girl went missing and the only person who realized was the social worker. Or she was the only one who gave enough fucks to actually look into it. Fucking cops didn’t do a goddamn thing. High risk. Lifestyle. Volatile. Runaways. Drug use._ “It’s red,” Geralt muttered. Lambert pressed on the brake pedal.

“’Member that woman with the missing person case we found up north in the fuckin’ buses?”

“The cult?”

“Yeah. What was her name?”

“Ah, fuck. The cult leader was the Prochaska, I remember that.”

“You had to testify in that one?”

“Didn’t you, too?”

“I didn’t have to go, no. Just met with them.” _Ithlinne._ “Never mind. I remember.” _I’ll bet she knows about adoption._

_Did she adopt that girl? No, if social workers adopted every kid they got close to, they’ve have a fucking horde of children_. _I wonder why the old guy in Annie only adopts one kid when he could easily—doesn’t he do something with the orphanage at the end, though? But the dude has tons of money._ “What’s the name of the old guy in _Annie_?” he asked.

“Huh?” asked Geralt.

“Daddy Warbucks,” answered Jaskier.

“Thanks.”

_Daddy Warbucks. I wonder if that’s a reference to war profiteering. Didn’t those tycoons make millions before the US went into World War II? And the Roosevelts are in it, so it’s set in the Depression, before the war. I should rewatch that. I bet the kids would enjoy it, isn’t there a remake that isn’t so white? Probably better. But Carol Burnett. Oh shit and Tim Curry. And who was the guy? Daddy Warbucks. I wonder if Jaskier calls Geralt Daddy. I wonder if I called Aiden Daddy, or if he called me Daddy… Would that be weird? That might be weird. That’s a thing though, it’s definitely a thing, so it has to be kinky._

_So is slapping people, and that just seems painful_ , he thought. _Spanking might not be too bad, though._ He imagined being on his hands and knees, with Aiden spanking his bare ass. Then he imagined the scenario the other way around. _God those ass cheeks would ripple and bounce with it, and they’d turn so pink._

_But it might hurt. I don’t want to hurt him. I just want to see his butt jiggle. I’ll bet it would jiggle if I grabbed it, too, and just, like, let go real quick. That’s stupid. No, but like, a real handful. Squeezing it, like an ass massage. And I’d be able to see his crack—that’s not a sexy word—that’s good, you’re sitting next to Geralt, fucker, take it easy. Oh god, don’t get hard now—fuck. Vesemir. Vesemir. Okay._ He took a few breaths.

_But I could see the hole, right there. And I could touch. And… Oh fuck. Fuck. Fuck! Stop it. Distract. Anything else._

_He could do it to me._

_Don't think about that, dumbass. Fuck. What’s—something—the Pythagorean theorem? Why the fuck would that be what you think of? Why the fuck would it not be? Remember senior year at the Academy when you listened to that Bon Iver album on repeat every day for months?_

_I wonder if Aiden likes that album. What was it called? That has literally nothing to do with Pythagoras. Was I in a math class that semester? What was that guy's name with the socks?  
_

“Are we close?” asked Geralt.

“Yeah.” The night was creepy-misty, and Lambert realized he was one of the only cars on the road, which was also a song, but more importantly, was probably at least a little bit conspicuous, so he thought he’d switch off the headlights, but the van was one of those inconveniently safe vehicles that had running lights, and Geralt, of course, pointed it out because any opportunity to make him feel like a dumbass would be capitalized upon.

Coën was already there. As soon as Lambert parked, he climbed into the van and told them there was a truck around the back of the building, in the loading dock.

“I can loosen the valve stems, flatten a tire or two,” Aiden offered. Geralt looked stunned, and Lambert swallowed the laugh that bubbled up in his throat. Aiden asked Coën what kind of security he’d be dealing with.

“Not many lights,” said Coën. “I think if you go from the east end of the block you’ll have good coverage.”

Geralt was still stunned. He looked back at Aiden. “You have a valve tool with you?”

“I keep one in my wallet,” Aiden explained, and honestly, it wasn’t the most surprising thing Lambert had learned about him yet, or the most exciting, but it was yet another reason for his gut to feel like it was lifting up into his chest. _If I look back there, I’m gonna—I love him. I love him_ , he thought. _Oh my god. Fuck. Oh shit. Oh my Christ it’s amazing. I’m going to marry him. What if he doesn’t want—he will; he said he likes me. Liking someone isn’t the same as wanting to marry them though. For fuck’s sake, why would you jump from a valve tool to marriage? There are steps in between, asshole. You could like, get coffee with him. We’ve had coffee. He makes really good coffee. Astrid can be the flower girl, she’d be adorable. Why would we have a flower girl, it wouldn’t be like I put on a dress and walk down the aisle or anything. I’ve never even worn a dress. I wonder what it would be like to wear a dress._ He pictured himself in a dress and swallowed another laugh. _Is it bad to laugh at the idea of wearing a dress? Because lots of people—no, only if you’re laughing at someone for wearing a dress, and laughing because you’d look stupid in one isn’t like laughing at someone who wants to wear one. Besides, they look good. Like that Harry Styles kid. And anyway, how do you distinguish between that and like a robe in a different culture? Is it just types of fabric? Oh my god Aiden would look fantastic in a kilt. Fuck, those thighs would be just visible, and it would swish as he walked, and maybe he wouldn’t wear anything under it. And I could get on my knees, and he’d be—”_

“It’s kind of a long story,” Aiden was explaining. “And you never know when you’re going to need one.”

“A long story about tire valves?” Geralt asked.

“Yeah.” Aiden didn’t offer any more explanation, and Lambert realized he could get the whole story after they finished up here. And then maybe figure out if Aiden wanted to, like, talk to the social worker with him. And move in. _Oh fucking god that’s a lot to ask. He’s gonna think I’m fucking nuts. No he won’t. He’ll probably—he probably already knows exactly what you’re thinking about._ Lambert looked back at him, and Aiden was watching him with an indecipherable expression on his face. It made Lambert’s heart pound.

“Right. Keep to the shadows,” Geralt told him. Lambert opened his mouth to add something, but couldn’t form a thought coherent enough to express, so he closed it again.

Aiden seemed to understand. He nodded and let himself out of the van. He disappeared into the shadowy night.

Geralt turned to Lambert. He cocked his head to the side. “So,” he started to say.

Lambert cut him off. “I don’t want to talk about it.” _I just want to make it through tonight and get this figured out._

Lambert and Geralt went in from the roof. He wanted to punch Geralt. There was no easy way in without him straining and stretching himself, and it was irresponsible. He knew that on one hand, he should be doing it himself. On the other hand, he needed a second if he wanted to successfully help the girls.

The girls who, they found, were being trafficked as he and Geralt entered the building. A woman, who was apparently Radovid’s assistant, was trying to drug them. He and Geralt busted in through the ceiling to rescue them. She had guards, whom he and Geralt had to incapacitate. They did, but the woman pulled a gun. _Fuck_ , Lambert thought. _Be brash. Keep her attention away from the girls. And Geralt._ “Let him go,” said the woman.

“I’m afraid not,” Lambert said, drawing her attention. _That’s right. Don’t look at them._

It almost seemed as if she knew he was trying to keep her attention away from the others. “I’ll shoot you both,” she threatened.

“Wrong.” _That’s it, get upset at me. Not him. Us, not the girls.  
_

“I will!” Her voice was raising in volume and hysteria. _Fuck_ , Lambert thought. _She’s actually going to—_ The door swung open behind her, and she fired.

For a split second, it felt like time slowed. Lambert saw the pistol discharge. He realized, before the bullet struck, that it was pointed at him. He thought, _Not my head, please_.

Lambert had been shot before. He’d been close to a few explosions, but never directly in one. He’d had stitches in his leg from a bullet wound, and he’d been cut a few times. Mostly, his battle wounds tended toward blunt force trauma.

This felt like a combination of all that. The bullet knocked him backward. He fell, and couldn’t breathe. “Fuck,” he managed to wheeze. Geralt appeared above him. “Fucking hell.” He sucked in air, and it _hurt_. “God damn that hurts.” _I think my rib is broken. I’m not dead._ He looked up. The woman and her goons were all incapacitated. _We aren’t dead._ _I need to get to the truck_ , he thought. He tried to sit up, but he could barely move. _I need to…_ He tried to catch his breath. “I think I may have hurt my ribs,” he tried to explain.

Geralt called Roche and Sigi so the traffickers could be appropriately arrested. Lambert realized he was going to go stop the truck, and that he couldn’t stop him from endangering himself. “Vesemir is gonna be pissed.” _At me_ , he thought. _Because Geralt’s doing way too much._ He tried to get up again.

“Keep your strength,” said Geralt, and Lambert rolled his eyes. He tried to roll to his side, and it felt like someone had taken bolt cutters to his rib cage. He watched, feeling helpless, and Geralt and Coën went off to stop the truck.

“Would you sit down?”

“No,” Lambert argued. “I need to—”

“You need to sit, and then we need to get you x-rayed.”

“I don’t think it’s broken. I can breathe. I can talk.”

“Barely.” Aiden’s voice was thin. His face was pale. “You should’ve—”

“There wasn’t anything I could do to change it. She had a loaded gun. We’re lucky she didn’t aim for anyone’s heads. We’re lucky she didn’t shoot one of the girls.”

“Let me see it.”

“It’s fine.”

“It clearly isn’t fine, Lambert. Let me—” He stopped. Geralt interrupted with questions about Radovid. Roche had a few more questions, and then he sent them on their way.

Aiden drove the Transit back to the villa. No one spoke. When he parked, he sat for a moment, and then buried his face in his hands. At first, Lambert thought he, too, had been hurt. Then Aiden started laughing. Jaskier joined in, and he opened the van door and yanked Geralt out. Lambert just stared at Aiden. He watched him shake with laughter. “Of all the people,” he said, “who could move in next door to me…” He took a deep breath, calming himself. “It was you.”

“I’m sorry,” Lambert mumbled.

“No,” Aiden said. “Not—don’t be sorry.” He reached out to Lambert and put his hands beneath his chin. “Of all the people who could move into that house, somehow it was the bravest, most selfless, brilliant,” he licked his lips, “sexy… man I’ve ever known.”

“I…” Lambert’s face heated. “I am not…”

Aiden kissed him. Lambert could barely move without gasping in pain, so the kiss was too short to satisfy either of them, but it stopped his mind from spiraling. “Let’s go inside,” said Aiden.

Lambert nodded. He followed Aiden inside and let himself be put into bed.

Before falling asleep, Lambert looked at Aiden. He pulled in as deep a breath as possible without grinding his teeth in pain. He let it out.

“Do you want to move in with me?” he asked.

Aiden rolled onto his side and looked at him. He wet his lips, looking thoughtful, and Lambert thought his heart was going to leave his body. Finally, Aiden answered. “I think we should paint the living room ceiling blue.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part 1/2
> 
> I'm so tired from going back to work, I hope this isn't too riddled with errors. I'll fix typos as I spot them, please be patient with me. <3

“Can I have marshmallows?”

“Of course, you can have marshmallows. That’s why we got them.” Lambert pushed the bag over, and Aiden dropped some into Astrid’s mug. Skjall pushed his mug over, and Aiden loaded him up as well.

“Okay, are we all good?”

“No,” Skjall said. “You don’t have any.”

“Oh.” Aiden gave himself some marshmallows as well. “ _Now_ we’re set.” He looked at each of them. “We wanted to talk to you.”

Astrid noisily slurped her cocoa. Melted marshmallow stuck to her upper lip and she licked at it. “Uh-huh.”

“It’s about your father, and about us.”

Skjall put his hands flat on the table. “Are you sending us back?”

“No,” said Lambert.

Aiden sipped his cocoa. He swallowed. “Your father has done some things that are against the law. Do you understand what that means?” He waited for both of them to nod. “Okay. One of the things he did that’s against the law is hurt you. People aren’t allowed to hurt other people, and no one is allowed to hurt children even more specifically. It’s illegal. Your father broke the law, and because of that, he’s going to be in court, where a jury and a judge will decide what the… consequences are.”

“Like jail?” asked Astrid.

“Maybe. There are different possible consequences for breaking different rules, and prison time is one possible outcome.”

“Whose rules?” asked Skjall.

“Well, the state and the country, but also society.”

Lambert drank his cocoa and realized he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had any. It was good.

“He also has done things for his work that are against the law. It’s called usury, and it’s a complicated thing, but your father worked at a place that’s being shut down because it did it and it hurt people’s lives.”

Skjall nodded. Astrid slurped her mug.

“The thing is, we know he did these things. And because of that, he’s going to be prosecuted. He’s probably going to have to spend some time in jail. They may make him see a doctor who will help with his drinking and his anger.”

Lambert tapped his fingers on his leg. “That means the county will decide who gets to take care of you.” He curled his fingers together. “And we’ve talked about it…”

“And if you guys want, you can choose us. But it’s your decision.”

“Like forever? Not just for when he’s at the clinic?”

“For as long as you want, and that can be forever,” Lambert said. “There’s a woman named Ithlinne, and she’s a social worker. She’s nice. She helps people.”

“Like you?” asked Astrid.

“Better than me. She helps people every day. I only do it on special days.”

“Okay.”

“We want to stay with you,” said Skjall.

“Does that mean you’re going to just live in one house, or are we going to go back and forth?” asked Astrid.

Aiden smiled, and one of the dimples appeared. “We’re just going to be in the one house, and we’re going to get a new neighbor in the other house.”

“Can we get a neighbor with a daughter?”

“Well, it’s probably going to be your da—uh, Lambert’s brother, Geralt, and his new boyfriend.” Aiden licked his lips, and Lambert’s heart pounded.

“Julian?” Skjall asked.

Lambert frowned. “When did you meet him?”

Astrid picked a marshmallow out of her mug and ate it. “Papa Vesemir told us about him. He said that’s why you had to go to the fancy house, and that Julian makes movies for grown-ups that we can’t ever see because he’s naked in them and that would be weird.”

“He told you _what?!_ ”

“Lambert,” Aiden held up a hand, “it’s fine—that’s all true.”

“Well yeah, it’s true, but—”

“It’s best to just be honest about it.”

Lambert raked his fingers through his hair. “Christ,” he muttered. “When did you start calling him Papa Vesemir?”

“He said it was okay,” Skjall explained.

“Well of course it’s okay. It’s more than okay. I’m just surprised. We were only gone for a couple of days.”

“And all of this has been pretty quick,” Aiden added. “So, we can give you time to think about all of it.”

“Okay, when do we get to say?” Astrid asked.

Aiden chuckled. “Only when you’ve had time to decide.”

“I decided,” she said.

“You can’t just decide because of applesauce and marshmallows, though,” he told her. “Because you can get those other places, too.”

“Mm hmm.”

“Okay, then, what did you decide?” he asked.

“I wanna stay with you.”

“Because I bought you applesauce and marshmallows?” asked Lambert.

“No, ‘cause I like it when I’m happy and I don’t have to hide Skjall’s books and we can play. And no one yells here. Or hits.”

“That’s a good reason,” said Aiden.

“Does this mean you’re our dads now?” she asked.

“Uh…” Aiden looked at Lambert.

“If you want, we can do that. But we’ll be here and we’ll keep you safe and take care of you no matter what. And if your father serves time—or even if he doesn’t—and he gets help and you decide you want to give him another try, that’s going to be up to you and the social worker. But as long as you want, I’m going to be here, and I’m going to take you to the Y and make you cocoa, and Eskel can teach us how to plant a garden in the back, and Geralt can teach you karate and Arabic, and Julian… can tell you about all the places he’s traveled to, and Papa Ves can take you fishing at the lake house.”

“And Lambert can teach you everything else,” added Aiden.

“I can’t _teach_ you—”

“Like how to speak French. And Latin, if I’m not mistaken.

“Well…” Lambert pursed his lips.

“And how to build and fix things,” said Skjall.

Astrid pointed “He knows about all the books, too! All of them!”

“Not _all_ of them. Aiden knows more…”

“Can you show me how to build a computer?” Skjall asked Aiden.

“Of course.”

“I want to build a robot!” Astrid exclaimed. “With lasers!”

Lambert shrugged. “Okay. I think he can handle that. You know _he_ speaks _Russian_ , too?”

“Does that mean I really get to have a LeBron room?”

“Yeah, I said that was a good idea, right?”

“I thought you’d change your mind.”

“You think I’m gonna change my mind about the second greatest basketball player of all time?”

“Second? No way.”

“No surpassing Michael Jordan. Can’t be done.”

“What?” Skjall scoffed.

Lambert looked at Aiden. “Oh man. We gotta find some basketball videos or something. Why do you think he’s number 23? You kids ever seen _Space Jam_?”

They shook their heads.

“Okay, new plan. First, we buy some furniture and paint. Second, we have dinner. Third, we watch _Space Jam_. Aiden?”

“I’m in. Astrid, go put some shoes on.” As the kids scrambled off to get ready, Aiden leaned close to Lambert’s ear. “Since when are you into basketball?” he asked. His breath was warm, and Lambert shivered.

“When I was seven, I wanted to play baseball. If they want to play basketball, I’m going to be extremely into it.”

Aiden wet his lips. He reached up and ran his thumb along Lambert’s jaw. “He might change to number six next season.”

Lambert smirked. “Since when are you into basketball?”

“How does your side feel?”

“I had forgot about it until you asked, thanks.”

Aiden rolled his eyes. “Man, turns out they were right about you.”

Lambert grinned.

The furniture store clerk seemed delighted to see Lambert and Aiden again. Skjall picked out bunk beds. He said he wanted to invite a friend over. Astrid picked out a four-poster because she said it looked like something in a book. Aiden made them each pick out a dresser, and Lambert had them each pick a desk. Aiden insisted they each have a bulletin board to hang things over the desk. They bought paint and new light fixtures at the hardware store.

“Okay,” Aiden said later, sinking into the mattress, “you were right. You’re right about everything.”

“I know, right? Oh shit, are you—what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“Yeah—just… Sometimes when it decompresses it’s…” Aiden took shallow breaths, and Lambert took hold of his hand.

“Do you need to see someone about it?”

“I probably need an injection soon. It’s actually when it stops decompressing like this at the end of the day that’s when you need to worry.”

“Can I do anything to help?”

“Mm. Just… sit with me for a moment.”

Lambert gingerly climbed onto the bed beside him. He felt himself sink into the cloud. _But goddamn it is a nice bed_. “Ah. I’ve missed it.”

“Should’ve said something sooner.”

“Didn’t want to point out you were letting me stay over.”

“You thought I didn’t notice or something?”

“Didn’t want to push my luck.”

“I don’t think luck has anything to do with it.”

“Did you almost call me ‘your dad’ when you were talking to the kids earlier?”

“Maybe.”

“I would be a terrible dad.”

“You’re off to a pretty great start, in my opinion.”

Lambert turned his head to the side and stared at Aiden’s ear. “I’m going to fuck it up. What if they hate me?”

“Yeah, probably, and they won’t.”

Lambert huffed a laugh. “Well, at least we’re expecting it.”

“No, don’t misunderstand me. I… I talked to my dad about this. I was thinking about myself, and he was talking about all the things he thinks he messed up on. I think… yeah. It’s inevitable that we’ll mess up. But that’s what apologies are for. I mean, if you never mess up, you never learn how to get better. It’s like losing a fight, right?”

Lambert reached out and trailed his fingers across Aiden’s wrist. Aiden curled his fingers around and twisted them together with Lambert’s.

Aiden turned his head to the side and looked at him. “I think you’re going to be an excellent dad.” His face was soft with an easy smile. “It’s pretty clear you already love those kids.”

“They’re pretty easy to love.”

“The fact that you think that is part of what I’m talking about. And the fact that you insisted they both have big desks to work on schoolwork. And that you kicked the thermostat up two degree because Astrid said she was cold after dinner.”

“She sounded like her throat was sore.”

“I know.”

“You got out a humidifier.”

Aiden smiled. “I know. She’s lucky I didn’t get out the Vicks.”

Lambert laughed. “Ves swears by that stuff. It’s nuts. It’s scientifically impossible that it could have that many benefits.”

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.” He squeezed Lambert’s hand. “Like I said: excellent dad.”

“Is insanity contagious?”

“Why?”

“I think you’ve caught some of my crazy,” Lambert said.

“No, I’m just in love.”

Lambert froze. Aiden hadn’t looked away; he stared deep in his eyes, as if making a challenge. _Challenge accepted_ , he thought. “Me too.”

“You too what?” Aiden whispered.

“I love you.” Lambert swallowed. “It seems… nuts. Even for me. Especially for me. I never felt anything like this before, not for anyone. It’s like, it’s just, sort of like you’re a part of life now. Like,” he laughed, “I wasn’t looking for this or anything. I wasn’t, like, wishing for a family. And then I got this house and now, like… I mean, I know you’ve been married before and all, and you don’t need, I mean, like I’m just a basket case—well, Esk says I’m not, and I don’t try to, I mean, it isn’t like I’m like, I think my father maybe had something for real but didn’t get help and I’ve seen therapists and shit because after I was deployed the first time I had this thing where I kept thinking I was gonna die all the time but I’m better now and that’s a lot of baggage to bring and unload on anyone, and I don’t want to dump all of it on you or anything. I just really like being around you all the time, like _all_ the time, and that almost scares me a little bit but like, I don’t really like the idea of ever not being with you. And I just think that when I see you first thing in the morning it makes me feel like the day is going to be better and when I sleep with you I feel rested, and it’s weird because I didn’t think I was missing anything, and I had really just started to… really be comfortable by myself and was enjoying who I kind of, you know, am, and stuff, but I just really think life is better with you.” He bit his lip. “And I mean, I’m probably saying this all wrong. I don’t want to fuckin’ go overboard and all. Fuck. I’m doing this wrong.” He sighed. “That is probably the most ineloquent thing I’ve ever said and I should have thought of—I should have written this down and planned it. You know when I do things for work I go over it first. I like, practice in the shower.”

Aiden watched him through the speech. “I’m glad you didn’t.”

“Why?”

“I like you unrehearsed. I know what you’re thinking.”

“That’s frightening.”

“You know my parents have been together for forty-five years?”

“Really?” Lambert hummed.

“Yeah. When I was with Vienne, I remember trying to imagine, oh, even twenty years together, and it seemed like such a long time. I couldn’t envision what our lives would be like at that age, or what our relationship would be like when we’d been together that long.” He turned onto his side and ran his hand along Lambert’s neck. “I can’t imagine twenty years from now without you. I can’t imagine being without you next week _or_ in fifty years. I don’t want to. It would be dull. And I don’t mean dull in a way that’s calm or peaceful and just, not exciting. I mean, you make my days… vivid.”

“Me?”

Aiden chuckled. “Yeah, you.” He trailed his fingers down to Lambert’s throat. “I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting the next chapter now, too! This is more or less the resolution, but, you know... fun stuff to come. *wink*


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part 2/2
> 
> (this is the smutty part)

They called in favors at every step, and the case went quick. The criminal usury charges resulted in fines and assistance for the people who had been hurt. The abuse charges resulted in four years in state prison.

Lambert didn’t think it was enough. Aiden told him it was probably for the best because prison was punitive, not restorative. Lambert said he’d like to restore Rience’s face with his fist. Aiden said that didn’t make sense, but he appreciated the sentiment.

Ithlinne was appointed as the case worker. She told Lambert she wasn’t going to do any favors when it came to interviewing and inspecting the house. Before she left, she smiled and said she they wouldn’t need any.

The night of Lambert and Aiden’s second date, the kids had a sleepover at Papa Vesemir’s. Before they left, Astrid kissed them each on the cheek, and Lambert wasn’t sure he wanted to leave.

They drove to dinner, and it was fine. It was good. Lambert enjoyed it. He cleared his plate, which wasn’t any big feat: it was a nice restaurant, so the servings were small.

But Aiden stole his attention. His hair was back, so Lambert could see the light catch each curve of his face. He had a spot like a freckle on his left cheek. His eyes were big and brown and warm, and when he smiled, it made Lambert feel like he could do anything. When he smiled, there were crinkles at the corners of his eyes, and Lambert reached into his pocket and fumbled for the box there.

“I…” He tried to catch his breath.

“You’re going to ask now?”

“What?”

“You think I don’t know?”

“Well of course you know, you know everything. But—”

“I thought you were going to wait until after.”

“Why?”

“You were adamant we’re taking a walk after. You told me exactly where we were going.”

“I didn’t want to fuck it up.”

“How could you fuck this up?”

“Well clearly I am right now!”

Aiden looked like he was trying very hard to suppress his smile, and failing. “Lamb…”

“Don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m not. You’re not fucking up. You’re doing perfect. This is exactly perfect.”

“Well now I’m not going to do it.”

“Yes you are. Are you going to kneel?”

“Do you want me to?”

“You know I love it when you’re on your knees.”

“Jesus fuck, Aiden, don’t say that to me in public.”

“I’m going to show you how much later.”

“Oh my god.”

“I love it when you blush, you know. God you’re good looking.”

“I am going to…”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Well, are you ready now?”

“Why am I even doing this?”

“Because I love you.”

“Mm,” Lambert grunted.

“And you love me.”

“Well.” He shrugged.

“And you want everyone to know I’m yours and you’re mine.”

“Mm.”

“Because we are.”

Lambert sighed. He stood up, reached in his pocket, and then got down on one knee. “Aiden.”

Aiden’s lips parted. He slid back his chair. Lambert could see the rise and fall of his chest. He watched him rub his palms on his thighs. He looked up, and everything faded away except Aiden’s eyes.

“I love you.” He breathed. “I wrote out what I was going to say for this more times than, well, a lot. And every time, it was different. There are so many things that make me want to ask you this—it’s basically just everything about you. I want to spend every day getting to know you more, and I, I think about those fifty years you talked about, and I think that even then, even after all that time you’ll still be surprising me with more things to be amazed by. I can’t believe I didn’t dream you—I mean, I’m still not completely sure this is really happening. I know I can be a prickly bastard. I’ve got… baggage. I don’t get along with a lot of people; I find it really hard to, like, be a person some days. But you make me feel like I can _be_ , and I want to be that for you, too. So this is me asking if—oh, god, I made it about me, didn’t I? Did I fuck it up? I don’t want it to be about me, I want it to be about you, but you’re incredible, and—”

“Lambert.”

“I knew I should’ve just written it down and read it.”

“Lambert!”

“Yeah?”

“Will you marry me?”

Lambert couldn’t breathe. He opened the box with shaking fingers and slid the ring onto Aiden’s hand. “Yes,” Lambert whispered, and Aiden kissed him, and people clapped, which made Lambert realize they’d been listening, which made his face burn, but Aiden kissed him again, and he decided he didn’t care.

They walked along the waterfront, and then made out in the car like teenagers. The console was in the way, and Lambert kept hitting his knee on the molded plastic. “Stop kissing me so I can drive,” Aiden said, pulling him close.

“You’re… kissing… me,” Lambert argued. He pushed his fingers into Aiden’s hair and pulled, and Aiden groaned. Aiden reached for his fly, and Lambert tried to push into his hand. “Ow.”

Aiden started the car. “I have to get you home.”

Lambert reached over and undid the first three buttons of his shirt.

“ _Lamb…_ ”

“I want you to fuck me.”

Aiden closed his eyes for a moment. He bit his lip. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Completely. I’ve been thinking about.”

“Really?” Aiden looked at him through his eyelashes. “What were you thinking?”

Lambert panted. He fastened his seatbelt. “I was thinking maybe first you could do that thing with your tongue.”

“You want me to rim you?”

Lambert sucked in a breath. “Yeah.”

“You like it when I do that?”

“I do. Do… Do you like it?”

“I love it. You know what kinds of sounds you make when I have my tongue in you?”

Lambert shook his head.

“You try to be quiet, but you can’t. You squirm, and you moan. I can feel how tight you’re coiled. What do you want me to do then?”

“I want you to touch me.”

Aiden pressed the throttle. “I’m going to sink my hands into those tight muscles. You and those tight jeans drive me crazy, you know that?”

“You’re one to talk.”

“Not like you. Those glutes…” Aiden bit his lip. “I’m going to slick up my fingers and work you over, and then I’m going to slip in a fingertip, and you’re going to moan. At first you’re going to be impossibly tense, so I’m going to go slow, and I’m going to work you open, bit by bit, until you’re drooling into the pillows and writhing.”

“I already am.”

Aiden peeked over. He smiled. He sped up. “I’m going to work you over until you’re ready to beg, and then I’m going to…” He paused to take a breath, and then chuckled. “I’m going press into you slowly, so I can feel every inch of it in your hot body. And then when I’m in all the way, I’m going to kiss you, and then we’re going to make love.”

They made it to the stairs. Lambert’s shirt came off first, and Aiden sucked kisses onto his pecs and abs. “Have I mentioned how rude it was to tempt me with this before we even knew each other’s names?” he asked. “Flaunting your body and your power tools like some hot construction worker?”

“Construction… workers, _fuck_ … are not… generally… hot—I didn’t know your name so I just thought of you as Thor.”

Aiden laughed. He pulled his own shirt off, and Lambert grabbed him and pulled him in. “Every time I saw you, you had some new grand plan, and acted like it was just no big deal. And all these opinions about everything, and every one of them all thought out and ready to argue. I love how opinionated you are.”

“I thought you were going to kick my ass, and it was so fucking hot.”

Aiden shoved him into the wall. “You like it when I manhandle you?”

Lambert’s cock strained against his pants. “Oh god yes.”

Aiden smirked and kissed his throat and collarbone. He threaded his fingers through Lambert’s hair, and then reached down and undid his fly. He didn’t hesitate, but slid his hand inside and gripped him. “You like that, too?”

“Fuck.” Lambert closed his eyes. “Please…”

“Please what?”

“Take me…”

Aiden let out a shaky breath. “Come on.”

They left their clothes on the floor. Lambert pushed Aiden onto the bed first, and then climbed in after him. He rubbed his face against Aiden’s chest hair. He wrapped his arms around him and let himself soak in his warmth.

Aiden started with his hand wrapped around Lambert’s cock, and then followed it with his tongue and his wet, hot mouth. He licked it and sucked, and then explored with his mouth, moving lower and lower, as Lambert shook and groaned. He stroked along his body with strong, sure hands, and then tilted Lambert up and spread him apart.

His tongue touched Lambert, and nearly overwhelmed him. “Aiden, fuck—that’s good. _God_.” Lambert caressed his head with one hand and gripped the duvet with the other. He couldn’t wait long. “I want you, please,” he said. “I want…”

Aiden kissed his thigh and rubbed at his rim with a finger. “Do you want to turn over?” he murmured.

“Okay.”

Aiden licked into him and slicked his hand with lubricant. He pressed against him, and Lambert made throaty sounds. “Yeah,” he groaned. Aiden pushed a finger in. Lambert felt like his body was on fire.

“Relax, love,” Aiden whispered. Lambert obeyed. He let Aiden’s hand calm him, and he closed his eyes and breathed. “Perfect. You’re so perfect, Lamb.” He slid his finger in further. Lambert grunted. Aiden’s finger moved, and it felt so full, Lambert had no idea how anything more was going to fit. He stroked in and out, and Lambert twisted his hands in the bedding. “Shh,” Aiden whispered, rubbing the small of his back with his free hand. “I’ve got you.” He squeezed his ass and made an appreciative sound, and then stroked more and added a finger.

“Jesus _fuck_ , Aiden—”

“That feel good?”

“Fuck— _yes_ , it feels—”

“Tell me.”

“More, please it’s like…”

“Like what, love?”

“Something there, that…”

And then, like parting clouds, Aiden reached a spot in him that made him nearly collapse. “There?”

“Nngh, _Christ_.”

“You like that?”

Lambert already felt on the edge, and they’d only just started. “Yes but, first, please—”

“Anything.”

“I told you, I want you.”

Aiden slowly withdrew his fingers. He paused for a moment, sucking in breaths. “You’re absolutely sure?”

“Yes, I’m fucking sure, now please, fuck me.”

Aiden pressed a kiss to the small of his back and uncapped the bottle. “Turn over. I want to see your face.”

Lambert rolled onto his back, and Aiden lined himself up. They kept their eyes on each other, and Aiden slowly pushed in.

At first, it was too much. Lambert froze, breathless and stunned. Aiden’s jaw went slack, and Lambert made a guttural sound. “Oh my god,” Aiden whispered.

“Fuck,” Lambert replied.

“Is this okay? Does it hurt?”

“I’m okay. No, just… Can you… okay, move—a little, a little—like that.” Lambert gasped as Aiden rocked into him in small, steady strokes. “That’s… Christ, that’s—fuck! That’s…”

“That’s what?”

“’s good. Good.” Lambert’s cock grew rock hard between them, and Aiden kept his hips rolling into him. He kept a steady pace, and then Lambert moaned and reached for him, and Aiden’s control waned. He thrusted faster and harder, and Lambert gasped with the slow-building pleasure of it. Their bodies slicked more and more with sweat, and Lambert surged up to kiss him.

When Lambert’s words were reduced to a nonsensical babble, Aiden reached between them and took him in hand, and Lambert keened and tossed his head back as he came. He could feel himself clench around Aiden, and within moments, Aiden, too, was spilling inside him.

They collapsed together in a messy pile, and then drew a hot bath. “I think you’ll remember you promised me a bath in a tub so big you could lie down in it,” Aiden said.

Lambert paused, one foot in the half-full, still-original tub. “You’re right. Want to go first thing tomorrow?”

“Astrid’s going to want to use it for glitter bath bombs.”

“Maybe we should buy two.”

“And some more bath bombs.”

“Better get some for Skjall, too. You don’t think he’s too old, do you?” Lambert asked.

Aiden grinned. “Nope.” He uncorked a bottle and drizzled an aromatic gel into the water. It made a creamy foam, which Lambert sank into. Aiden climbed in behind him, and water sloshed up the sides of the too-small tub.

“First thing tomorrow,” Lambert laughed. He leaned back.

Aiden wrapped his arms around him. “Mmm,” he agreed.

Lambert closed his eyes and let himself soak in the warmth.

Lush made robot bath bombs that both Astrid and Sjkall liked. Aiden bought them in bulk. Lambert learned an excellent French toast recipe.

They painted the ceiling blue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all are truly incredible. I am so grateful for the support you've given me as I've written this story, and so humbled and overjoyed by your feedback. For everyone who has identified with Lambert--please know you are seen and loved and appreciated.  
> I have channeled more of myself into writing this story than and I've ever created, and it has been so incredible to read your comments and see your feedback.  
> I truly, truly (madly deeply) appreciate you.  
> It's funny how a story that on the surface is a lot lighter than the previous entry in the series can actually carry a lot more emotional capital from the writer, and that personal nature of this has really made your support empowering and essential. I cannot thank each one of you reading this enough.  
> But enough seriousness!!
> 
> There WILL be epilogues to this.  
> Definitely a meet-the-parents scene.  
> Definitely more sweet children living their best lives.
> 
> And there WILL be a (shorter?) part three with Eskel and Essi. 
> 
> Come say hi on Tumblr! Sometimes I go long periods of time without being able to communicate like a real human, but I long for contact nonetheless! @agentlewomanandascholar
> 
> Much love! Happy 2021!

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are the fuel that gives my life purpose. Sad? Probably. But true.


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